McClatchyActsUp

"I think there's just a couple o' guys up there and this asshole is one of them!"

2010-07-22T21:04:00.000-07:00

I had a conversation with a really good young actor the other day. At one point he mentioned that a young female actor — who'd had a recent decidedly brief and unfruitful stay in New York — told him that he should only do film. No TV, no stage, no nothing. Just film. I replied that while his friend was probably a perfectly nice young woman, she also happened to be a first-class dingbat.

Like being a working actor isn't impossible enough already. And isn't that the point after all? To, ya know, work? Well, the great (and sadly late) James Gammon seemed to think so. All he did was work. And work. And work.

In 1967, he did his first guest spot on TV — on The Wild Wild West and his first film, a little thing called Cool Hand Luke . Am I the only one who finds it completely awesome that on IMDb the credit right before Cool Hand Luke is Gammon's appearance in the original Batman series?

Its okay if I am.

Gammon did nearly every hour-long drama from The Virginian to Grey's Anatomy and was a series regular on Nash Bridges — that last bit makes me so jealous of my old friend Jodi O'Keefe, who got to play his granddaughter and hang out with him, that she and I can never have a normal conversation again.

James Gammon was such a sellout that all the poor bastard could do was be the muse for the greatest American playwright of the last fifty years. Sam Shepard repeatedly wrote plays with Gammon in mind. Over the years Gammons became the most reliable interpreter of Shepard's work, acting in Curse of the Starving Class, A Lie of the Mind, The Late Henry Moss — and the two shows I was lucky enough to see him in — Simpatico and the Broadway revival of Buried Child for which Gammon nabbed a Tony nomination for his spectacular turn as Dodge.

He was simply great on stage.

Oh — and he did a few more films as well. Most of you may love him most as manager Lou Brown in Major League and rightly so but he will always be Dawson from Silverado to me. Rent it and the title of this blog entry'll make sense. A close second is his great performance as Double D in Traveller.

James Gammon was a gifted acting lifer who was, by all accounts, a great co-worker and who had no need to do anything but stay married to the same woman for 34 years and raise two daughters and work with everyone from Sam Shepard to Adam West to Wim Wenders to Robert Conrad to Paul Newman to Don Johnson.

He didn't give a shit. He was a working actor. He worked.

Please, my young actor friend, aspire to be a sellout just like James Gammon.

The Greatest 32 Pages You'll Ever Read To a Kid

2009-11-23T21:12:00.000-08:00

Let's dispense with the pleasantries and get down to brass tacks:

Buy this book and read it to a tyke you love.

Actually, what you can do is pre-order this little gem for all the little nippers close to your heart.

Lisa McClatchy — already a seasoned pro at the sweet, smart and funny young-reader story — is debuting her first original picture book — Dear Tyrannosaurus Rex — in July 2010. But you can order that puppy today!

Inspired by the antic imagination of our daughter and spun into sweet, warm comic gold by a woman noted for her writing skills as well as her taste in men and who is today celebrating her date of birth in the year 19#*, Dear Tyrannosaurus Rex ix a keeper.

(Technically her birthday is tomorrow, Nov. 29th but we're getting a jump on that epic mystery number today.)

You may only know Lisa McClatchy as the wildly successful publishing consultant.
Or as the instantly successful theatre producer.
Or the endlessly generous, thoughtful and loyal friend.
Or the involved, caring and loving parent.
Or the reliably fun and chatty social companion.
Or the one who saved you from having to hang out with me any more than you need to.
Or the ...

I could go on ... and I will. Just not here except to say that she continues to surprise me, crack me up, inspire me.

And please buy her book — because our kid has expensive tastes and Ivy League aspirations and a thing about seeing the world .. and shoes.

And wish Lisa McClatchy a Happy Birthday as well. Remember — If it wasn't for her, I might be sleeping on your couch. Or yours.

HE WAS ME

2009-09-14T06:07:00.000-07:00

No, I wasn't a junkie. No, I never played against Lew Alcindor (later Kareem Abdul Jabbar) in high school and no, I never turned tricks on the streets of Manhattan. But Jim Carroll spoke to me in a way no other artist has.

I have read The Basketball Diaries — in part or in its entirety — every year since 1979.

The Basketball Diaries is high art from down in the gutter. A riveting, heartbreaking, hilarious and insightful examination of an extraordinary teenager and emerging artist.

(Its pointless for me to talk about the film version of The Basketball Diaries. Nothing could have lived up to my expectation, my own inner movie of it.)

It was tempting to want to live the equivalent of his wounded poet/hoop prodigy/streetwise cool existence myself — first in suburban Philly, then Lexington, Va. and finally in New York.

And I was not alone in that pursuit.

Jim Carroll and The Basketball Diaries helped me forge one of the great and lasting friendships of my life — because it wasn't every freshman hoop player at stately Washington and Lee University who recognized the names Anton Neutron, Lefty, Jimmy Mancole and swimming the shit lines, nodding at Headquarters and wanting to be pure.

Or who could go toe-to-toe with you at full volume singing "People Who Died" or any of the other stone-cold classics from Jim Carroll's yowl of an album Catholic Boy.

It was me and it was Cregs.

Cregs would be Mike Cregan — another Philly boy, a 6'3 power forward from Holy Ghost Prep, another tortured, youngest-of-six-fallen-Catholic soul who loved hoops, beer, stimulants, a free Ireland and Jim Carroll.

We found ourselves slugging it out in the alternate universe known as Washington & Lee and then in the land of Carroll himself — the streets of NYC.

Cregs was the first person in my adult life — outside my immediate family — who truly knew what I knew, who was moved by what moved me and who laughed at the same stupid shit I did.

The days of the inseparable Kevin and Cregs are long gone. The wild days replaced by encroaching middle age. For the last fifteen years we've lived thousands of miles apart. But he is still my confidante, my close friend, my third brother. And it was Cregs who I instantly thought of when I heard that Jim Carroll had died.

(Speaking of brothers, Scotty Mac was very eloquent about Jim Carroll here.)

So not only did Jim Carroll's artistry make me want to be more than I was (and continues to challenge me to be more than I am), it helped me locate the one friendship that I needed as I found my way into adulthood.

So here's a big slug of OJ and 5 Italian ices to Jim Carroll — tortured street poet extraordinaire, dead at 60, and to my man Cregans — the only other one who really knew — alive and well at 45.

Eight Years Later

2009-09-11T06:33:00.000-07:00

What exactly will you think of today — on the eighth anniversary of 9/11?

Our daughter — a 2nd grader — asked us at breakfast this morning to explain what happened eight years ago.

So we told her, in (we hope) age-appropriate terms, about that day — which occurred 53 days before her birth. We emphasized the bravery of the firefighters, police and military personnel lost, as well as the passengers of United 93. We told her about the two people we knew who had died in the attacks:

My college classmate Commander Robert Allan Schlegel, USN.

Firefighter David Fontana, elite Squad 1 in Park Slope, Brooklyn. David was the husband of our friend Marian Fontana.

And, finally, we told her how people came together to help each other and rise to the challenge of overcoming the tragedy, striving to make our country better and stronger than ever. Our worst nightmare produced our greatest unity.

That unity is what I will think of today — fleeting as it was — because regaining it is the only real and lasting way for the country to honor those who gave their lives.

If only for a brief while, there were no Republicans, no Democrats, no special interest groups, no Glenn Becks, no Michael Moores.

There were only Americans.

President Bush had the support of a nation and the free world ... and promptly squandered it. Only the financially vested and ideologically blinded can continue to say waging war on Iraq was the best course of action in the wake of 9/11.

Osama Bin Laden did exactly what he set out to do — "We are continuing this policy in bleeding America to the point of bankruptcy."

We screwed the pooch and soldiers are still dying or coming home damaged and ill-tended.

(The lack of care for our veterans is probably the greatest national shame of — at least — my lifetime. It is morally criminal to send soldiers to war if you are unwilling or unable to properly bring them home. "Homeless veteran" is a phrase that simply should not exist.)

So eight years later, we find ourselves more divided than ever.

There is an anger — one that has been present from the moment the final vote was counted — directed at Barack Obama that is historic.

I may be mistaken (my research department is on unpaid leave,due to the fact that my credit card companies — the ones owned by the same financial institutions we all bailed out —— have thanked us by ramming the APR equivalent of Purple Thunder up our asses as they use the resulting profits to catch up on executive bonuses) but I don't recall gun-toting protesters during previous administrations, or Congressional hecklers during a speech by the President of the United States or parents frightened to allow their children to be exposed to a speech by the President of the United States, written specifically for them.

I further don't recall a sitting president ever being publicly called a racist or an entire movement enacted — from the instant of his election — to hamstring the very legitimacy of his presidency.

I also don't recall ever having an African-American president.

The behavior of the loudest and the crudest and the news outlets that give them a voice has besmirched the memory of those we honor today.

Can we, just once, consign the likes of breathless, self-pleasuring media personalities Bill O'Reilly, Glenn Beck, Sean Hannity, Michael Moore, Laura Ingraham, Wolf Blitzer, Keith Olbermann; celebrity 9/11 conspiracy douchebags Charlie Sheen, Rosie O'Donnell, Daniel Sunjata and Wille Nelson; and morally dubious politicos too numerous to mention to the sidelines?

Can we conduct ourselves in a way befitting that silent promise we all made eight years ago as two towers fell, the Pentagon exploded and the United 93 passengers charged up the aisle:

I'm going to earn their sacrifice. I'm going to make them proud. I'm going to be better than I was yesterday.

Oh — gotta go — I hear my daughter reading Charlotte's Web.

Thank you, Rob.

Thank you, David.

Willie, Hughes and the Crack of Hearts

2009-08-07T21:36:00.000-07:00

I'm fairly certain that Willy DeVille and John Hughes never worked together, never hung out or even met.

They were of two distinct universes. Two distinct talents. Two distinct barbers.

They are forever joined now, having passed away on the same day, August 6th — DeVille at 55 and Hughes at 59.

And I have a soft spot in my heart for both.

My brothers turned me on to DeVille and his legendary band Mink DeVille. His great songs are too numerous to list — and, anyway, if you're even a little curious, you're already hunting and sampling and judging his stuff by now.

But Willy DeVille is in the McClatchyActsUpHall of Fame (if you haven't heard of this Hall, don't fret. I established it 45 seconds ago) for two movie moments:

1. The theme song (Storybook Love) to The Princess Bride.

2. The scene in The Pope of Greenwich Village where a pre-nutjob Mickey Rourke tries to re-woo a pre-nutjob Darryl Hannah and asks some (presumably pre-nutjob) neighborhood guy with a boombox to hit them with some romantic tunes so they can dance in the park. Just to Walk That Little Girl Home is the song — it is perfect and it works.

Bonus moment — I went to see him at a club in NYC — the name escapes me (Scotty Mac, help me out) — one of those shows where the headliner hits the stage around 12:30, 1am. He was eerie, translucent, unbelievably cool and the master of the gravelly, downtown wounded poet love song. Plus, I think he was on the nod. But since I was in my full-blown Jim Carroll fascination phase, I was down with Willy's heroin rap.

Fellahs — you want to get the woman in your life in the mood — a bottle of Pinot and a Willy DeVille mix.

You're welcome.

And thank you, Willy — whose cool was matched only by his talent.

Now, I know it was never really cool to dig John Hughes out loud — but I'm trying to come up with another screenwriter with a comparable volume of lines that get quoted. Help me out if I'm overlooking someone.

In the eight year span from 1983 to 1990, Hughes owned the harmless-mildly-subversive-comedy genre. Owned it. In that time period, he wrote (and you have been quoting ever since):

Mr. Mom
Vacation
Sixteen Candles (also directed)
The Breakfast Club (also directed) featuring one of the great comic jackass performances of all time by the late great Paul Gleason.
European Vacation
Weird Science (also directed)
Pretty in Pink
Ferris Bueller's Day Off (also directed)
Some Kind of Wonderful
Planes, Trains & Automobiles
She's Having a Baby (also directed)
The Great Outdoors
Uncle Buck (also directed)

Be a movie snob if you must — but that list right there is unbelievable. Packed with great lines, memorable characters and indelible moments. All in eight years.

So leave a thankful moment for John Hughes — his movies have been very good to you.

The Street Dogs: Let Them Save Your Soul

2009-08-03T20:31:00.000-07:00

How often do you get your mind (as well as your eardrums) legitimately blown at a rock and roll show? Especially when you have never heard of the band? Especially, especially when you've been stumbling around the Dublin (OH) Irish Festival in a vaguely been there-done that haze of familiar faces and a half dozen Killian's?

That's where Lisa and I found ourselves yesterday on the closing day of the second-largest (I'm told) Irish festival in the United States. There were the usual local suspects (whom we love) reeling and jigging the day away with homegrown talent and professional vigor. Sure there were new faces — the Celtic Tenors, Pogey and Dervish, to name a few — and they, too, gave very entertaining, good, clean accounts of themselves.

But it fell to the festival's closing act, out in the hinterlands of the Killian's Celtic Rock Stage, to deliver bone-rattling, hair-raising, fountain-of-youth inspiration to geezers like us.

All we knew about these guys was that the lead singer had been the original lead singer of the Dropkick Murphys.

Then the Street Dogs took the stage promptly at 6:30 and, for the next hour and a half, made me love punk rock all over again. Far less overtly Celtic than their Dropkick brethren or Flogging Molly or The Tossers, the Street Dogs come on like a Billy Bragg/Clash/Ramones car crash with louder and faster everything and an idealistically manic frontman in Mike McColgan.

More astounding than their brilliant, searing and utterly genuine show was learning that the Street Dogs have been around since 2003 — evidently saving rock and roll one sweaty, ear-splitting, pogoing show at a time. They have four records out. I don't own any of them.

That will change in about nine minutes.

No band appears to believe more than the Street Dogs and no frontman believes more deeply than Mike McColgan.

Believes in what?

The power of rock and roll.

And the son of a bitch is right.

It's hard to beat the pure joy of a great rock and roll show.

McColgan and his mates just ripped it — from the opening strains of Amazing Grace (courtesy of the Cyril Scott Pipe Band) which led to the blistering sing-a-long Not Without a Purpose to a knockout call-to-arms cover of the Joe Hill song (made famous by Billy Bragg) There is Power in a Union to McColgan's heartbreaking PTSD lament War After the War (dude's a Desert Storm vet and a former firefighter — talk about walking the walk) and on and on through a breakneck, ecstatic set.

There were pleas for unity, instructions on how to correctly and effectively pogo, Bono-esque climbs up the scaffold, Townsend-like leaps off amps, dedications to the active duty soldiers, heartfelt exhortations to fuck MP3s and go buy The Clash and The Pogues on vinyl and the most supportive mosh pit in history.

It was a Woodstock moment for the Anti-Flag generation.

And it didn't matter how old you were. Or how long you've been married or ...

I'm fairly certain that a marriage (or any meaningful relationship, for that matter) is not truly consummated until you have pogoed together to Tobe's Got a Drinking Problem.

No one was immune to the joy ... the electricity ... the tinnitus.

This was the loudest show I've ever attended.

(Yes, even louder than when Scotty Mac opened for the Smithereens.)

The Street Dogs were so loud I thought Lisa might suffer a concussion. I thought I might crack a rib. I thought the bass player might stroke out.

And it was just loud enough.

Go see the Street Dogs. Buy their music. Be saved.

Rod Stewart — For Real

2009-05-21T07:40:00.000-07:00

After last night's American Idol finale (my daughter nearly threw a Howard Cosell brick through the TV when Kris Allen won — hey, she's a rocker) I thought it was necessary to remind myself just who the balls Rod Stewart was.
Here's the guy I wish America had seen last night — one of rock and roll's all-time great singers:

Womack Daddy

2009-04-30T08:49:00.000-07:00

On Saturday night, Lisa and I saw Dave Alvin play at the Columbus Maennechor in front of a couple hundred very well-behaved patrons.

The Maennechor is an old German supper club-type joint and the show was in a small ballroom-ish space that was kinda sterile and kinda creepy, frankly.

Anyway ...

I love Dave Alvin. He is responsible for a great many of my favorite songs and also plays a central part in one of the enduring urban myths of our time — The Wet Alternator.

It has to do with Dave Alvin at the Tin Angel in Philly in 1997, my brother Trip, rain and deep deception.

(You'll have to ask Trip about the details — I've repressed the whole sordid affair.)

Dave Alvin's show was impeccable.

It was the musical equivalent of the film Unforgiven. Moments of greatness and inspiration sprinkled through long, tasteful stretches of Alvin's warm baritone talk-singing/storytelling that nearly put my wife down for the count.

(Beware the mango-tini at The Old Mohawk in German Village. And, for the record, she was out like a light 40 minutes into Unforgiven — no alcohol was involved.)

The Dave Alvin concert was a show that I know I'm supposed to have loved. I mean finally taking advantage of the opportunity to see this living legend in concert.

But — brace for the heresy, music nerds — Dave Alvin acoustic live is a little boring. A tad monotonous. Something of a museum piece.

Yes, he got our blood surging with a rousing King of California and a lovely Every Night About This Time and a heartfelt Kern River. Plus, he's genuinely funny and endearingly grumpy.

Yet, I couldn't help but think of Sinead O'Connor many times during the night.

Bear with me.

Sinead O'Connor has a habit of whisper-singing to the point that I want to take a hammer to the cd player. But when she decides to actually, ya know, really sing — it is beautiful and stirring.

Dave Alvin spent a good deal of time whisper-talk-singing and, frankly, I found it kind of annoying. Mostly because when he actually sung, he sounded great.

His guitar playing — and that of his sidekick Chris Miller — was tasteful and sterling.

But tasteful guitar heroism isn't all that high on my list of concerns — concert-wise.

I want to feel. Be moved. Identify.

For that, I had to go to the Red Door Tavern the very next night.

Along with fifteen other extremely fortunate people — I had the pleasure of seeing singer/songwriter/author/wandering troubador Tommy Womack (left) play.

Yes, one-five.

15. As in one more than 14.

If Dave Alvin was channeling Clint then Tommy Womack was channeling a southern-tinged Aaron Sorkin. Highly literate, self-deprecating, slightly sentimental, deeply opinionated and often hilarious, Tommy Womack is a first-rate songwriter, a sneaky-good singer and a road-tested sure-footed performer.

He even got the dickhead in the corner to stop his relentless texting and join in the standing O after Womack did The Replacements — the best song ever about a real band.

If you like John Prine. If you dig Todd Snider. If you can't get enough of well-written, world-weary, witty, generous and occasionally angry songs that you sing along to even though you've only just heard them for the first time —

Tommy Womack is your guy.

I'm no expert on Tommy Womack. I've seen him play live twice in my life. And the first time, in 1999 at the Sutler in Nashville, I wasn't crazy about it. Lisa was. I was not.

I am now crazy about it.

And prior to Sunday, I couldn't name you more than three Womack songs. Further I have incurred the enduring wrath of my brother Scott (who recently shared the bill with Womack in Philly — and put the wandering troubadour up as well) by neglecting to, as yet, read The Cheese Chronicles.

But, let me just say this about that ...

For one night in a neighborhood hole-in-the-wall in front of 15 people, Tommy Womack killed it. He connected. It was loose, scruffy and emotionally fraught.

He was singing about himself ... and us.

... In The Booth Today

2009-04-14T14:03:00.000-07:00

Column inches by the hundreds and blog pages by the thousands are paying tribute to Harry Kalas, the one and only voice of the Philadelphia Phillies.

Why?

Why is Harry Kalas, a guy who announced baseball games and narrated football highlight films for a living so beloved? Why is there so much emotion behind the tributes? Why do we care?

Because ...

It is rare to experience someone so clearly the very best at what he does — and experience it for so long (Kalas became the voice of the Phillies in 1971) with no hang-ups, no hiccups, no dust-ups.

Kalas loved his job. He respected his good fortune. Unlike Harry Caray, he was no clown but he never took himself too seriously. Unlike Vin Scully, he never tried to make baseball or the announcing of it more than what it was, yet he knew how to frame the drama of the sport. In addition, Kalas had the great fortune of having the perfect broadcast partner — Richie Ashburn — for nearly thirty years.

Listening to Harry Kalas do a baseball game was damn near sports perfection.

Countless books, articles and essays have been written about the generational pull of baseball — the magical way that it connects people to their past and those who inhabited it.

That is the greatest gift that Harry Kalas gave to those of us fortunate enough to hear his calls.

It's impossible to hear the voice of Kalas and not be flooded with images, sounds and emotions from summers and falls gone by.

The cliched image of a little kid listening to some piece-of-crap transistor radio under the covers fit like a glove in our chaotic, unpredictable household. And it was Harry Kalas who often carried us through the night — especially on the West Coast swings that stretched past midnight and beyond.

Not only the greats like Steve Carlton, Mike Schmidt, Larry Bowa and Juan Samuel but forgotten names like Max Scarce, Willie Montanez, Tommy Hutton, Wayne Twitchell and Larry Hisle— not to mention Gene Garber, Oscar Gamble, Bake McBride and Dick Ruthven — came to vivid life across the airwaves via the memorable pipes of Harry Kalas.

The call by Kalas of Mike Schmidt's 500th home run is one of the great, emotionally stirring calls of all time.

Hearing it again these last few days gave me chills. It choked me up.

My brothers and I spent untold hours playing baseball and every variation of baseball every summer of my youth. And we always did Kalas when something memorable happened.

My old man was an accomplished minor-league and semi-pro baseball player and he lives and dies with the Phillies. Listening to Harry Kalas and Whitey Ashburn in the summer was one of the only things (possibly the only thing) we could all agree on.

So many of those moments Kalas called — from Rick Wise's no-hitter in 1971 to Schmidt's 500th in 1987 to Brad Lidge striking out Eric Hinske this past October — evaporate the distance between what we were and who we are now.

Finally — Mike Schmidt, the greatest Phillie of all-time, told a story today on ESPN radio about how Kalas would affectionately call him "In The Game Today" — as in "the greatest player in the game today." Schmidt would respond in kind with "In The Booth Today."

The booth today is empty and will never be the same.

OFF THE BEATEN PATH — 12 DAYS OF IRISH 2009 — DAYS Ten, Eleven and Twelve — McCredie

2009-03-24T09:55:00.000-07:00

This comes exactly a week late by the reckoning of the calendar but, in fact, it is years overdue.

Because you need to know about Jeff McCredie — and, yes, he has done enough in his life so far to warrant three days' worth of verbiage.

Jeff McCredie is a true original.

He comes from the kind of Irish-American family about which weepy, redemptive movies-of-the-week are made.

Old man abandons the family, mother shoulders the Herculean burden of raising three kids, bouncing from Kentucky to upstate New York to Havertown, Pennsylvania, kid beats the odds and you can imagine the rest...

Only here's the thing: Jeff emerged — bruised and scarred — as a driven, gifted young man who excelled at ... well, everything:

Smarter than everyone — and when I say everyone — I mean friggin' everyone! Dude's in MENSA.

Great tennis player.

Better baseball player.

Okay — typical white-guy hoopster. But still ...

Talented actor.

Prolific painter (We have two hanging in our house — neither of which he'd let us pay for, the moron.)

Bad -ass lawyer.

Drinker of a solid pint.

Loyal friend.

Out-sized, reckless heart.

American hero.

Oh ... didn't see that last one coming? Its the truth. And its important that you know it because he has— on countless occasions and without fanfare or accolades — made your life safer and better.

And, if you've ever been within a five-mile radius of him, he has made your life louder, funnier, vastly more interesting and memorable.

Because McCredie is nothing if not memorable.

I didn't know Jeff all that well growing up. He lived a few blocks away from us in Havertown and he was a few years older than me.

I only got to really know him when he graciously opened his home to me on my first visit to Los Angeles. That was 1998. Upon my arrival, he dropped everything and, within minutes, we had two well-poured pints of Guinness sitting in front of us.

It was 11:20 in the a.m. (For the record — it tasted great.)

By that time, Jeff had graduated from Eastern College (cum laude, with some kind of freak-genius triple major in History, Poly Sci and Business Admin) , where he was the only baseball player in the school's history to play in every game. Later he was invited to The Philadelphia Phillies training camp. He ultimately went on to play semi-pro ball.

Along the way he was able to squeeze in becoming a nationally-ranked tennis player.

(My brother Trip used to play tennis with Jeff — and was lucky to win a point. If memory serves, one of Jeff's booming serves nailed Trip right in the weiner. That alone makes Jeff one of my all-time favorite people.)

Oh and let's not forget that Fulbright scholarship to the University of Hamburg.
It was during that experience that Jeff first came into contact with the Agency. The Company. The Spook House. The CIA. What did he do during that time?

You don't have clearance, Clarence.

Then Jeff knocked out your basic law degree from Temple University and promptly became indispensable as assistant D.A. of Montgomery County in suburban Philly.

(He once prosecuted a case involving my cousin's seriously flawed first husband and withstood — with grace and wit — daily grillings from my old man. I think we all know the self-control involved in that.)

And then it began.

Jeff became a walking, talking Robert Ludlum novel.

For three years he was a Special Agent in the Diplomatic Security Service (DSS) in the area of counter-terrorism. He worked closely with special ops groups and was also an anti-terrorism instructor.

The next five years saw Jeff employed as a legal advisor in the Office of International Affairs at the Justice Dept.

Suffice to say, neither of these assignments were desk jobs. Both involved willingly going into places and situations that would have you and me curled up in the fetal position screaming for our mommies.

Wherever bullets were flying, laws were being broken, bombs were exploding, rebellions were percolating, dictators were scheming and people were dying — Jeff went there and did that which was asked of him.

By us.

Imagine the following places at their absolute worst — and that's when Jeff was there:

Liberia
Northern Ireland
Russia
Israel
The Phillipines
Thailand
Zimbabwe
Iraq
Afghanistan
Pakistan
South Africa

That's roughly a quarter of his passport stamps.

And the only souvenirs he brought back (besides some killer African masks and a dizzying array of weapons) were a wrecked shoulder; chronic, debilitating back problems; broken bones; memories that would psychologically buckle ordinary people and a whippin' case of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

I'm sure plenty of people in Jeff's former line of work bullshit their way to free drinks and good sex, spinning gourmet meals of embellishment concerning their own heroics.

However, in those circles, there is evidently an unwritten rule that states — the veracity of any given story is iron-clad only if a fellow agent tells it about you.

One night at a Japanese restaurant with Jeff and two friends of his — a real-life Mr. and Mrs. Smith — the married spook couple told the most mind-blowing story of ballsy nerve and outright courage I've ever heard.

It was about Jeff.

And even taking into account our epic sake consumption and my own inclination toward exaggeration ("Did I ever dunk in a game? Hell yes! Twice, dude!" Yeah, if games of Nerf basketball count.) the story about Jeff was insane. His well-ya-know-what-else-could-I-do shrug was all he added.

After eight years of operating in the shadows and fighting off the demons of his memory, Jeff landed in Los Angeles. He had been acting for years on stage in and around D.C. — in between dodging automatic weapon fire and chasing down terrorists — and he wanted to give his acting career his full attention.

His day job was as a Special Agent with the Justice Dept.'s Inspector General Office. He investigated the illegal activity of scuzzball Justice employees. From busting drug rings in California's most notorious prisons to South Central gang takedowns to cutting off human trafficking operations, McCredie jumped from the frying pan into the fire.

(Take that — all you pussy actors who've ever whined about your bartending or catering or temp jobs ... oh wait, that's me. Shit.)

And he hustled for acting work — which was hard to come by. He worked on stage and scrambled for film and TV jobs. Jeff and I commiserated about the business. We collaborated on two scripts. We became friends. He was one of the first people to see our daughter Eirann after she was born.

He also pulled a slightly demented practical joke on Lisa two months earlier that nearly induced labor on the spot.

(Lisa and I went to Duke's in Malibu with Jeff one night. As we're leaving, he breaks off and starts a conversation in Farsi with some Middle Eastern guy there. He's also fluent in German. I mean, Jesus Christ, I can barely speak English. Farsi!?)

And he painted and painted and painted. He painted landscapes and beach scenes and every piece of art he produced seemed to search for some kind of peace, a respite.

A brief, failed marriage and the spectacularly awful and abrupt end of his government career led to Jeff having to confront his demons, his PTSD, his lingering injuries and a lifelong struggle with depression head-on.

Which he did.

And the government didn't want to help him. In fact, the government tried their level best to deny Jeff that which he was owed.

The government — our government — wanted to scrapheap a guy who had left pieces of himself scattered across the globe in service to his country. This is not a new story — given the appalling disregard Washington has shown to veterans. But, ya know what, this is Jeff's story. And he had to fight and claw to get that which he had earned several times over.

Finally, he was grudgingly awarded disability pay from the government. Grudgingly.

In recent years he has had excruciating back surgery and major shoulder surgery. There are a battery of medications he takes to keep the wolves at bay. He — like my father, my nephew and countless other combat veterans — continues to struggle with the fallout of his service to our country.

A couple of years ago, he left L.A. for Virginia — to care for his ailing mother — the other hero of this story. She was the one who kept the family together, from whom Jeff inherited his smarts (she was valedictorian) and who introduced Jeff to art.

He has — for all intents and purposes — shouldered this responsibility alone. His fractured family could not bridge the gap. As his mother's condition deteriorated, Jeff was the constant, doing all the things that constitute the daily care of a terminally ill 72-year-old woman.

If you've ever had to watch a parent waste away and were powerless to stop it ... try doing it alone.

Last week, he made the most wrenching decision of his life --- to take his mother off life support.

Okay, listen — Jeff McCredie is not a saint — far from it.

In fact, sometimes he's closer to some rogue hybrid of Bruce Campbell, Al Hrabosky and Michael Collins who simply won't shut up or listen. His missteps are legendary.

But they are dwarfed by his generosity, his friendship, his talent and his commitment to those he loves.

Jeff McCredie is one of the the most fascinating, maddening, opinionated, eccentric, hilarious and loyal people I've ever come across. He has sacrificed more than most of us can imagine. The government has forgotten him (and many like him.) He never has — and never will — ask for your pity. I only ask that — this one time — you recognize a forgotten American hero.

And maybe get him an agent. He's a pretty fuckin' good actor.

OFF THE BEATEN PATH — 12 DAYS OF IRISH 2009 — DAY NINE — THE MATCHMAKER

2009-03-15T20:18:00.000-07:00

Okay, look. I realize that few people can be as annoying as Janeane Garofalo but — overheated, sweaty and emotional unhinged political diatribes aside — she can be a charming and funny actor.

Really.

And nowhere is this more on display than in The Matchmaker, a sweet romantic comedy that tanked at the box office when it came out in 1997.

Garofalo plays Marcy, a political operative for McGlory, a Massachusetts senator up for re-election (a hilariously clueless Jay O. Sanders.) McGlory sends Marcy to Ireland to rustle up some relatives to help him solidify his base back home.

Marcy lands in Ballinagra — same town, different name of most Irish comedies not set in Dublin. And when the put-out, put-upon, homesick Marcy meets scruffy journalist Sean (the estimable David O'Hara — seriously, is there a better lovable nutjob than his Steven in Braveheart?) you know exactly where this puppy is headed.

But like all good romantic comedies — it's the how, not the what. And The Matchmaker has some grit, some great lines and a funny, touching performance from the great Milo O'Shea. Denis Leary adds his two cents as McGlory's hatchet man — in one of his patented prickly, exasperated, fast-talking comic turns.

And the music. Oh the music.

So give Janeane Garofalo a shot. She's not on Larry King or Air America. She's just acting. And that she can do.

OFF THE BEATEN PATH — 12 DAYS OF IRISH 2009 — DAY EIGHT — Rory McIlroy

2009-03-14T09:39:00.000-07:00

Golf is as Irish as U2, Guinness and calamitous, alcohol-fueled family holidays.

The reigning face of Irish golf is Padraig Harrington — the Dublin-born, steely-eyed pseudo-nerdy guy who has three major championships to his credit, including the past two (2008's British Open and the PGA Championship.)

Then there is Darren Clarke — the cigar-chomping, hair-dyeing, fun-loving Northern Irishman who has won 16 times world-wide.

And, now, in the shadow of those two stars and such all-time greats as Des Smyth and Christy O'Connor, comes the next Great Pasty White Hope:

19-year old phenom Rory McIlroy.

A native of Hollywood, Northern Ireland, McIlroy has had an eerily Tiger-like ascent into golf's stratosphere:

Smacking 40-yard lasers at the age of two.

First hole-in-one at nine.

Led the winning Junior Ryder Cup team in 2004.

Youngest-ever winner of Ireland's two coveted amateur titles, West of Ireland and Irish Close Championships, in 2005.

Won them again in 2006, along with the European Amateur.

Turned pro in 2007 and shot into the top 100.

After a few close-but-no-Darren-Clarke-cigars, he won the 2009 Dubai Desert Classic, edging former English teen-age phenom Justin Rose for the title.

He is currently ranked #16 in the world.

No less than Woods himself has pronounced McIlroy the future heir to #1.

I'm no expert but this has to really be getting up Sergio Garcia's ass.

In addition, if you happen to find yourself in Ireland and all the usual suspects — Ballybunion, Lahinch, Portmarnock, Royal Portrush, etc. — are booked solid and Aer Lingus has dumped your clubs somewhere in the Atlantic, fear not.

Give a call to the European Club — in Brittas Bay, County Wicklow. It is at least the equal of the aforementioned legendary links. And, yes, I say this with all the certainty of one who has played none of them except the European Club.

But the Europena Club has charm to burn in addition to being a phenomenal links course. It used to be the greatest bargain activity in all of Ireland at 40 pounds for 18 holes. But Tiger Woods played there in 2002 and now it costs 180 euros — about $233.

If any course can actually be worth $233 (and I seriously doubt that one can) the European Club is it.

By comparison, Pebble Beach costs $495 AND you have to pay for the goddamn cart(!) — and you don't even get the wit and wisdom and impromptu step dance from that Richard Harris look-a-like working on pint # 7 in the clubhouse who still has enough left in the tank to flirt with your wife.

Golf in Ireland — you gotta do it once.

OFF THE BEATEN PATH — 12 DAYS OF IRISH 2009 — DAY SEVEN — ALL SOULS

2009-03-12T19:08:00.000-07:00

And you thought your family was a mess ...

Michael Patrick McDonald spills his heart, his guts and his blood onto the pages of this tragic, viciously funny and deeply moving Irish-American family portrait.

That's it. That's all I got.

Read it and weep. And laugh. And realize that, hey, maybe your fucked-up family ain't so bad after all. At least they're .. ya know ... alive.

This book is stunning.

OFF THE BEATEN PATH — 12 DAYS OF IRISH 2009 — DAY SIX — WORLD OF GOOD

2009-03-11T20:13:00.000-07:00

On the heels of three sectarian murders in the span of 36 hours in Northern Ireland, peace rallies spread across the Six Counties today. The message — from Catholic to Protestant, loyalist to nationalist, politician to housewife — was unity.

The Real IRA and the Continuity IRA — the dissident republican groups claiming responsibility for the attacks that left two British soldiers and one policeman dead — are now faced with their greatest enemy: the Irish people themselves, who want nothing — for themselves and each other — but a world of good. To illustrate what that means, here are the Saw Doctors:

The Saw Doctors — from Tuam, County Galway — have been around since the late 80's. And cool, striving faux-hipsters do not dig them.

Which is one major reason why I love them.

They make joyous, heartfelt, occasionally goofy, always passionate pop-folk-celtic-rock. They are, in many ways, the Irish equivalent of John Cougar Mellencamp — solid, sturdy populist rock-and-rollers hugely influenced by their native land, who have seen great success, been touched by occasional greatness, have a rabid following (okay, that might be more Springsteen than Coug) and who now seem to have run out of songwriting mojo.

(All you faux-hipsters out there will howl and wail at the "greatness" tag I've hung on the Coug and the Saw Doctors — and shuffling and mumbling around in your Devendra Barnhart knit hats and your Yo La Tengo tee-shirts, I say this to you: Fuck off.)

The two driving forces and only constant members since the band's inception are Davy Carton and Leo Moran. There has been a steady procession of musicians and contributors along the way but the Saw Doctors heyday was the 90's. Pretty much the whole decade, yeah.

And I think the secret weapon, the secret ingredient to that success was bassist Pearse Doherty.

I have no data, evidence or testimony to support this but with the inspired, antic and talented Doherty, the Saw Doctors produced four keeper albums, two #1 hits in Ireland and live shows that could make people literally climb the walls at the Ritz in New York, ecstatically channel Elaine Benes at the now-defunct Los Angeles Irish Festival while ash from nearby brush fires rained down and pogo in spite of a painfully herniated disc at the desperately-in-need-of-an-eppy Dublin Irish Festival.

Or so I'm told.

My two brothers, my wife and I were lucky enough to hang out with the Doherty version of the Saw Doctors a few times and they seemed like regular guys who had woken up one day to find out they were rock stars. Irresistibly charming and willing to buy a round as well.

Even better — the Saw Doctors have consistently skewered Catholicism and, in particular, the clergy in their songs. Anyone who punctures the hypocrisy of the "one true faith" and does it with guitars and beer is aces in my book.

For the uninitiated, here are the four Saw Doctors records that are must-haves:

If This Is Rock'n'Roll, I Want My Old Job Back — 1991
(includes the best-selling single in Irish history — I Useta Love Her)

All The Way From Tuam — 1992
(includes the other #1 Irish hit — Hay Wrap)

Same Oul Town — 1996

Songs From Sun Street — 1998

Since Doherty exited the band to raise his family, the Saw Doctors have not been the same on record. This decade has seen only two albums of new material — both underwhelming.

However, the Saw Doctors still have the capacity for joyful, celebratory rock and roll — after fifteen years, they returned to the top of the Irish charts in 2008 with a cover of the Sugarbabes' "About You Now."

The band recorded the song at the urging of the graduating class at Salerno College in Galway. The young women convinced the band to donate all the proceeds of the single to Cystic Fibrosis Ireland — in memory of their classmate who died from the illness late in 2007. So far more than $25,000 has been raised for the Salerno Schoolgirls' Fund.

Go buy the single. And go see the Saw Doctors when they come to town. They still can bring it.

OFF THE BEATEN PATH — 12 DAYS OF IRISH 2009 — DAY FIVE — Ballykissangel

2009-03-10T20:50:00.000-07:00

If you were a fan of Northern Exposure, you will like this acclaimed Irish dramedy series, which ran from 1996 through 2001.

If you thought Northern Exposure was good but too aggressively quirky and that it strained its "cute" muscle a few too many times, then you will love Ballykissangel.

This popular BBC series centers on Father Peter Clifford, an earnest, intelligent priest assigned to the small town of Ballykissangel — which is populated by just the right assortment of eccentric residents.

What distances Ballykissangel from the likes of Northern Exposure, Ally McBeal and Picket Fences is that Ballykissangel manages to stay rooted in a reality that makes the comedy all that much funnier and the drama all the more poignant. You never stop believing the characters.

And that is do as much to the acting as the insightful and restrained writing. Father Peter is played to baffled, determined perfection by Stephen Tompkinson. One of Father Pete's main challenges is his growing attraction to Assumpta, the local pub owner. You will fully appreciate his predicament when you get a load of Dervla Kirwan, one of Ireland's trademark smolderingly intelligent actresses, who plays the lonely Assumpta. It is a classic set-up that the series handles just right.

I'm battling a cold so that's all you get. Except to say that Ballykissangel is excellent television and also features the underrated Tina Kellegher, who achieved immortality (well, at least in the McClatchy household) as Sharon Curley in The Snapper. And a young Colin Farrell. And great music.

All six seasons are available on Netflix.

Here's where Peter and Assumpta meet for the first time:

OFF THE BEATEN PATH — 12 DAYS OF IRISH 2009 — DAY FOUR — DEATH AND LITERATURE

2009-03-09T17:18:00.000-07:00

One of Ireland's greatest actresses, Anna Manahan, died last week. She was 84.

Manahan's career spanned more than fifty years and covered stage, film, Irish television and radio.

I remember her from the films Hear My Song (another in a seemingly unending string of under-appreciated Irish screen nuggets) and A Man of No Importance (featuring a typically brilliant turn by Albert Finney in the title role).

But Anna Manahan will always and forever be Mag Folan — the scheming, brutally manipulative mother in Martin McDonagh's hit play The Beauty Queen of Leenane. It was her career-defining role and it won her the Best Supporting Actress Tony Award in 1998. I cannot tell you how lucky I feel to have seen it.

Lisa and I caught the final performance of the production before it transferred to Broadway. The intimate confines of the Atlantic Theater Company's mainstage made the experience unforgettable. Manahan — along with Marie Mullen, Brian F. O'Byrne (yeah, him again!) and Tom Murphy — gave us one of the theater's great ensemble performances.

It was a Sunday matinee and the median age of the audience hovered somewhere between B.C. and AARP. Mere seconds before the curtain came up — an elderly couple behind us had the following thunderously loud exchange:

Her — (rifling through her playbill and finding an insert for the upcoming premiere of Sam Shepard's Eyes For Consuela) LOOK AT THIS! WHO THE HECK IS SAM SHEPARD!?

Him — OH, HE'S THAT ASTRONAUT ...

Her — AND HE WROTE A PLAY?

Him — SURE! HE'S VERY TALENTED. AN ASTRONAUT, A WRITER AND HE ACTS!

Her — WELL, I'LL BE.

Then the lights came up and Ann Manahan launched herself into Broadway history.

__________________________________________________________________

This entire entry was supposed to be a spotlight on the excellent anthology Murder Most Irish, which features tingly, funny and quietly freaky short stories from the likes of James Joyce, Sean O'Faolain, Ann C Fallon and a host of other celebrated Irish authors. And I still urge you to rustle up a copy.

But then I learned about Anna Manahan.

And just moments ago I read that — 24 hours after the Real IRA claimed responsibility for an attack that left two British soldiers dead — it happened again. Tonight in Craigavon, County Armagh a member of the PSNI (Police Service of Northern Ireland) was shot and killed by unknown assailants.

Murder most Irish.

OFF THE BEATEN PATH — 12 DAYS OF IRISH 2009 — DAY THREE — GUSTY SPENCE

2009-03-08T19:17:00.000-07:00

As troubled times return to Northern Ireland, it seems fitting to cast an eye toward one of the most notorious figures of the conflict who has dedicated the last thirty years to finding and keeping peace in the North.

Gusty Spence, now 75, was the godfather of the modern Ulster Volunteer Force (UVF), the Protestant paramilitary group that, in May 1966, declared war on the IRA.

Less than a month after that declaration, John Scullion, a 28-year-old Catholic, was shot in the Falls Road area of Belfast. He died two weeks later, becoming the first casualty of the modern-day Troubles.

Spence was charged in the murder but soon after his arrest, the charges were dropped. Emboldened, he and other UVF members attacked four Catholic off-duty bartenders.

One was killed.

This time, Spence was convicted of murder and sentenced to life in prison. From prison, Spence oversaw the UVF's murderous campaign to obliterate the IRA and its supporters. The brutality, torture and indiscriminate killing by the Spence-led UVF rivaled — and often surpassed — that of the IRA.

A ballsy 1972 escape from the infamous Long Kesh prison led to this TV appearance that effectively scared the Jaysus out of every Catholic in the Six Counties:

Spence was re-captured four months later but he had cemented his folk hero/rock star status among Loyalists (Protestants who want to preserve the union with England ... in other words — dumb asses.)

However, as Spence sat in prison month after month — and people on both sides continued to die — and he actually had occasion to speak to his republican enemies ... a change began to take place.

Spence found his conscience.

The man who put the fear of God (or at least King William) into Irish nationalists far and wide for eleven years, turned his back on violence. On Armistice Day 1977, he officially resigned from the UVF.

Upon his release from Long Kesh in 1984, he plunged into the peace process. Ten years later — after countless hours of wrenching conversations and weathering the "traitor" label from UVF hard-liners — an emotional Spence stood before the world and read the UVF ceasefire, adding his personal ""abject and true remorse" to "the loved ones of all innocent victims over the past 25 years."

It was that image — Gusty Spence courageously offering regret and hope — as much as anything that propelled the peace process toward the historic 1998 Belfast Agreement.

It was courageous because Spence's life was now in danger from both sides. It was pivotal because, until then, the world had been deprived of a human face for the Ulster Protestants. The Protestants had — understandably so — felt like the red-headed stepchild of the Northern Irish struggle.

No movies. No U2. No White House receptions.

Just violence and blame.

Not that they didn't deserve the blame, mind you, because, let's face it — England belongs in Ireland about as much as I belong in the priesthood.

But Gusty Spence was the one who brought humanity to the "Prods". And it is impossible to imagine the current peace happening without his contribution.

And the old codger hasn't let up.

In 2007 he read a UVF statement saying they were putting their weapons "beyond use" — which is fancy wordplay for burying them ... but not too deep, just in case Gerry Adams falls off the pacifist wagon.

Spence immediately regretted the statement and last summer publicly blasted his former comrades for hedging their bets and challenged them to essentially get a hair on their asses and destroy the weapons unconditionally.

With yesterday's tragic shootings in Antrim by the Real IRA threatening to rip open freshly healed wounds, here's hoping that Gusty Spence's gutsy example is enough to snuff out any spasms of retribution by the UVF.

Because of Spence, many had been ready to pull the trigger.

Now, because of Spence, the trigger will fail.

Peace has been tasted and nothing can turn back the clock.

OFF THE BEATEN PATH — 12 DAYS OF IRISH 2009 — DAY TWO — INTERMISSION

2009-03-07T10:54:00.001-08:00

Pulp Fiction goes Irish in this mystifyingly neglected dark comic gem.

Set in Dublin, Intermission follows nearly a dozen characters whose lives intersect in funny, violent and, ultimately, touching fashion. Just when you think writer Mark O'Rowe and director John Crowley couldn't possibly fit another twist, reversal or character into the story, they do. Time and again. And always with bracing wit and relentless creativity.

Populated by what seems like half of Ireland's SAG members, this movie is one hell of a lot of fun. And it has a heart that does not promote tooth decay.

It is a hoot, a treat and a gas to watch the cavalcade of stars, near-stars and hey-I-know-that-guy-what-the-hell-is-his-name-agains having an absolute ball with dialogue that crackles with authenticity and situations that turn on a euro.

You get:

The excellent Cillian Murphy before his Batman gig.

Colin Farrell playing an Irishman (which is always good news, playing an American ... not so much) and he is spectacularly funny.

The protean Brian F. O'Byrne, who created — among other brilliant stage performances— the role of Father Flynn in the play Doubt. Philip Seymour Hoffman got the movie and an Oscar nod. O'Byrne got a "special thanks" and, I'm guessing, an attaboy.

Look, no one loves P.S. Hoffman more than I do but can't we once get to see the goddamn actor who originated the role do the movie?

(I hear a distant "Amen" from Kathleen Chalfant, who must have a special voodoo doll of Emma Thompson somewhere. See Wit and Angels in America.)

Kelly MacDonald (Scottish, but who cares) in all her post-Trainspotting and pre—No Country For Old Men charm and beauty. I was smitten.

(The wife digs James McEvoy, also Scottish, so I think the free spin rule is a wash next time we hit Glasgow.)

The slyly hilarious Shirley Henderson — Moaning Myrtle to all you parents and Potter nerds.

And finally — the man, the myth, the people's thespian — the actor who has been in every movie and on every television show shot over the past 25 years and has yet to hit a false note — Colm Meaney.

Intermission is a great, raucous Irish time. And now, it'll never live up to the hype. Sorry.

Rent it anyway.

Here's the trailer:

OFF THE BEATEN PATH — 12 DAYS OF IRISH 2009 — DAY ONE — THE TOSSERS

2009-03-06T20:42:00.000-08:00

Between now and March 17th, people of all stripes, ages and degrees of inebriation will tap their inner Paddy. They will break out Danny Boy, blinking buttons, big green Seussian hats and dye the rivers green. They will Lucky Charms us till our ears bleed, dance spastic jigs, and puke in the street, the bathroom and, yes, back into their beer.

And we empower them to get their Irish up, on and over in whatever fashion they choose.

However, for the 2nd annual "Off The Beaten Path - Twelve Days of Irish", (click here for last year's offerings) we will go native, immigrant and transatlantic to bring you some cultural and historical diamonds in the peat.

So today — let's rock it Chicago-style:

The Tossers, from the South Side of Chi-town, have been at it for over fifteen years but I have only hipped to them within the last year or so. And that was through pure dumb luck — somehow, I rarely seem to experience pure intelligent luck.

The Tossers followed the path carved out by The Pogues and currently trod most successfully by Flogging Molly and the Dropkick Murphys. The music landscape is fairly littered with bands hopping the Irish/Celtic train and much of that fare fades quickly from memory. Indeed at first glance (and second and third glance as well) the Tossers seem like they might be trying to will Shane MacGowan to apparate before them and christen them with the brown.

But here's the thing — the Tossers have the songs — and the killer players — and the frontman — to hold their own and more. Which they have for a decade and a half. And, ya know, what the hell — at least they're not ripping off Styx. And they truly re-invent the traditional Irish tunes they choose, making them exhilarating, haunting and current.

The Tossers have six albums out. Their latest is On A Fine Spring Evening and it is worth your time, money and effort. Drink and listen. If you're not singing, dancing or shitfaced by the time Brendan Behan appears — your name is probably Cromwell.

Oh yeah ... Lead singer Tony Duggins has a solo record out titled Undone.

His pitch — "Buy the record. I need beer money."

Evidently, the Tossers' live shows are the stuff of legend. As yet, though, the pricks haven't quite made it to Columbus. Hey, quick, somebody get me the Dublin Irish Festival on the phone — I think I know how to shock it back to life.

Dig this:

And The Award Goes To ...

2009-01-19T19:30:00.001-08:00

Happy Belated New Year! I have a litany of reasons as to why I haven't written in so long and I was all ready to share them with my readers (both of you) — until I realized that no one really gives a good goddamn. So ...

With the nutty Golden Globes over and done with (nutty, yes, but I am all over the Mickey Rourke reclamation project) and the Emmys just around the predictable corner, it seems an ideal time to recognize two spectacular television performances that have no shot at winning any awards ... especially since one of them can be found on a show that has just been canceled.

Robert Knepper as Theodore Bagwell (T-Bag) — Prison Break

How do you play a villain and keep the audience interested in you?

Furthermore, how do you portray a villain and get the audience — against all their better judgment — to care?

Whatever you think the answer is, Robert Knepper is doing it — and doing it as well as anyone has in recent memory.

Serialized primetime dramas like Prison Break provide actors with a huge challenge: create a fully realized character and find ways to reveal that character in new ways week after week. If the actor and the writers are up to the challenge, the results can be thrilling.

Robert Knepper's performance has been nothing short of thrilling.

Prison Break gets head-slappingly silly at times — and the acting is wildly uneven — but most of it is rooted in an emotional reality and the most entertaining and consistently surprising presence is Knepper's Theodore Bagwell.

For the first three seasons, Bagwell was an unrepentant scuzzball — a white supremacist sexual deviant who delighted in his deprivation and the lawlessness of the prison environment. But even then, we caught glimpses of his desire to be something other than what he was — as we learned why he was the way he was.

This past season, Knepper was given a chance to be that other person — when T-Bag assumed the identity of a successful salesman. Knepper made the battle between T-Bag's survival instincts and his desire to change utterly riveting.

In one of the great scenes in recent television drama — T-Bag chooses to spare the family of Gretchen Morgan (played by our old friend Jodi Lyn O'Keefe). Knepper breaks your heart. He's brilliant.

And none of the kooky awards voters noticed.

If you want to have the T-Bag experience broadcast into your home (not THAT T-bag experience, the actor one!) you better do it quick. Fox just announced that they are pulling the plug on Prison Break — understandably so.

Prison Break is not a thing of greatness. Knepper's performance is.

I dig House. Dexter is interesting. Gabriel Byrne is Irish, so he's cool. But Robert Knepper gave the performance of the year. And somebody needed to say it.

James Wolk as Brad Cohen — Front of The Class

Really? Hallmark Hall of Fame!?

Really!?!?

You bet your ass.

"Front of The Class" aired on December 7th and I was none too pleased that we were going to watch it. In fact, I had the Sunday NY Times spread out in front of me, ready to harrumph and guffaw my way through another weepfest.

Lisa had been intrigued by the commercial — the true story of Brad Cohen, a guy with Tourette Syndrome who beats the odds to achieve his dream to be a teacher.

Oy.

Hallmark just ain't cool.

I could actually feel the tooth decay begin before the thing started. But then a crazy thing happened — in the graveyard known as TV-movies, good acting and sensitive writing appeared. First there were scenes depicting the struggles of Brad as a youngster. Twelve-year-old Dominic Scott Kay was impeccable as the young Cohen.

A nearly unrecognizable Patricia Heaton and the perennially-underrated Treat Williams are Cohen's parents who try to cope with his behavior.

But it is James Wolk who puts the real emotional charge in Front of The Class.

Seriously, what's better than watching someone you've never seen or heard of give a thrilling performance? As the adult Cohen, Wolk seamlessly blends a startlingly truthful physical portrait of Tourette Syndrome, a gung-ho can-do outlook and a deep well of raging frustration. Plus he falls in love in a way that doesn't make you want to throw a brick through the screen.

As these things go, its fairly miraculous.

Okay, I cried.

There I said it. So shoot me.

The thing is:

No one — not the cavalcade of film stars in HBO's mega-movies and mini-series, Showtime's prestige pieces or the rest of the year's television movie "events" — gave a better performance than this kid. And the nominations will go to the usual suspects and life will go on but sometimes ...

... that ain't cool.

MARIE KAMARA MONK WAS AN ACTOR

2008-11-12T12:11:00.000-08:00

So many people claim to be that which they are not — as if the mere act of saying it makes it so.

When Marie Kamara Monk called herself an actor — it was the truth.

She had the talent, she had the passion and she did the work. Those of us fortunate enough to have crossed her path are better for it.

In the theater, an old adage is that we can learn all we need to know about someone by his or her work on the stage. In the acting, the person will be revealed.

Time and again, Marie revealed herself to be compassionate, committed, insightful, fiercely intelligent and very funny.

And courageous.

I had no idea that Marie had lupus, a much-misunderstood disease that my wife Lisa lives with as well. Knowing the great challenges lupus can present, it only deepens my respect for Marie's commitment to acting and my admiration for her artistry.

I would urge you to take this opportunity to learn a little about lupus. Its quite possible someone you know has it.

I would also urge you — as I urge myself — to embrace Marie's example.

To run out of excuses.

I knew Marie only in the classroom and saw her on the stage.

Those who knew her better than I have eloquently and beautifully remembered her.

I will only add this:

Marie Kamara Monk was an actor.

She will be greatly missed.

Click here to see Marie's tribute in the Columbus Dispatch.

A TWO-FER ... BECAUSE YOU DESERVE IT

2008-10-23T22:06:00.001-07:00

I accept the charge of sour grapes right from the get-go. It is the birthright of all Philadelphia sports fans — unmitigated grousing and finger-pointing.

Now that we have that out of the way ...

The guy pictured above just turned in what may be the worst performance by a home-plate umpire in a World Series Game. And since he was perpetrating this travesty against my beloved Philadelphia Phillies, I wanted to stick my fingers deep into his eyes with each mind-blowing mistake he made.

His name is Kerwin Danley and I do not like him.

I would appreciate it greatly if you would make an effort to dislike him as well.

Boy, did he suck in Game Two of the World Series tonight — blown calls, weird indecision and a strike zone that was more unpredictable than Tom Sizemore with an eightball, a strap-on and a blowtorch.

But, in truth, we can't lay all the blame for tonight's Phillies loss at Kerwin Danley's feet.

The poor Fightin' Phils are taking an historic collar with guys on base. It is as if we are watching the same inning over and over. A couple of guys get on base, then anemia sets in and Phillies are waving at the ball like Ms. Montgomery County.

Now before you say,

"Hold on there, armchair. You have no idea how hard it is to hit a major league fastball or curveball. No idea at all!!"

I'd like to illustrate just how knowledgeable I am about trying to do the near-impossible — which is to hit good pitching.

In my freshman year of high school — I went out for the baseball team at Archbishop Carroll. I had occasion to secure one at-bat during a practice game against Penn Charter, a school renowned for producing Tony Resch and soon to be exalted for producing Thomas Noonan.

This at-bat pitted the scrawny, bespectacled and jittery me against the strapping local legend-in-the-making known as Mark Gubicza.

With a helmet too loose and a bat too heavy, I dug in against the man-child.

The first pitch, I believe, I never even saw. Fastball.

Strike One.

The second pitch I'm certain I never saw. Fasterball.

Strike Two.

With an ill-advised brief burst of courage, I inched closer to protect the plate.

The third pitch headed straight for my face. I buckled, cringed and otherwise Cirque de Soleiled. The ball broke across the heart of the plate as I ended the pose looking like a flamingo having a seizure. Curveball.

Strike Three.

The at-bat lasted roughly forty seconds.

The next day I went out for the golf team.

So I have some kernel of insight into how tough hitting is but ...

COULD THE FUCKING PHILLIES GET ONE CLUTCH HIT!?! ONE!?! ITS THEIR CHOSEN PROFESSION AFTER ALL!!

Okay.

Number Two:

Seriously, "I Am Joe the Plumber?"

Really?

Is that what people are buying now? Is that really the deciding factor for the incomprehensibly still undecided voters?

"I Am Joe the Plumber."

Are you?

You're a lying sack of shit who has never been a plumber and goes deadbeat on taxes and compares Barack Obama to Sammy Davis, Jr.?

Awesome.

It was recently suggested to me that it is easy to misinterpret the likes of Rush Limbaugh, Sean Hannity and Bill O'Reilly.

So in my car today, I flipped to Rush Limbaugh's show. I took it as a challenge. I'll listen — in context — and see if I can keep from screaming "Asshole. Liar. Most dangerous man in America!"

I couldn't.

He talked about elitists and couched it in a soundbite from an interview Brian Williams did with John McCain and Sarah Palin.

Palin's part of the sound bite was another variation on her patented "My name is Elmer J. Fudd. I own a mansion and a yacht."

McCain expounded on where elitists could be found.

Washington D.C. and New York — in case you were curious.

McCain said elitists were anyone who thinks they know better than you do and want to control you.

Limbaugh then blustered that McCain was right — that it was all about condescension.

And that was enough.

These aren't serious people. They're name-calling, misleading and playing games while the country is in genuine turmoil. And, worse yet, if they are attempting profundity and clarity — then they are lacking in even the most basic self-awareness or insight.

Condescension runs through every vein of John McCain. Of the four people in this race, he has been — by far — the most privileged.

Sarah Palin's audacious disregard for us is clear — she will not deign to actually answer questions or speak in any way, shape or form that leads you to believe what she's saying. Either she thinks we're all too stupid to know the difference — or she is.

And ultimately — if the elusive no-name elitists you hear about every day really are those who think they know better than you do and want to control you — look no further than your neighbor's church. Any rival congregation will do.

There are no terrorists, communists, socialists or elitists running for president.

We desperately need serious, competent and steady people to lead us.

Put your country first and let serious people run it.

McCain Comes Full Circle — It's Over

2008-10-08T13:53:00.000-07:00

That's my prediction. My wildly presumptuous, hair-trigger prediction. And deep down, you know I'm right.

There is — barring any calamitous screw-up by Barack Obama — no way John McCain can rally to win the election.

Mint it. Print it. Sprint it (what!?).

He can't do it. He won't do it.

And it's not because he lost the debate Tuesday night — which he did. It's not because he lacks intelligence — which he doesn't. It's not even because his attempts at humor are tarnishing the legacy of Celtic wit and timing — which they are.

(McCain's roots go back to Antrim in Northern Ireland — and Scotland before that — just like the McClatchy roots — and the McClatchy clan is, by all accounts, an absolute laugh riot! We kill! We are flat-out hilarious — as any self-respecting, mildly lubricated Irish-Scots family must be. Come on, Senator McCain — if you're going to engage in witticisms and sly asides, you have a sacred Celtic obligation to, ya know, be funny.)

But McCain is done because he is physically, emotionally and psychologically unfit to lead.

Now Kevin ... don't you go Swift-boating this war hero, you socialist, tree-hugging son of a bitch.

I wouldn't dream of Swift-boating John McCain. Because John McCain has been Swift-boated already and he understands the impotent rage and bottomless disgust that being Swift-boated produces.

"They know no depths, do they? They know no depths."

That's what John McCain said about Karl Rove and George Bush's smear campaign against him in South Carolina's 2000 presidential primary.

(Of course, it wasn't called Swift-boating back then. It would be four more years before the Son of Perdition cooked that gem up. In 2000 it was just called Rove being Rove.)

And McCain was right. He was dead-on.

Yet now — with his presidential prospects dimming — he has come full circle and sold his soul at the altar of Mr. Pure Walking Evil himself:

McCain's transparent and wildly irresponsible VP pick was bad enough. But then — under the watchful eye of campaign strategist and Rove clone Steve Schmidt — McCain went off the reservation. He sent his circus act of a running mate Sarah Palin on an unholy mission to brand Barack Obama a terrorist.

Gov. Palin — folksy as all-get-out and that much creepier for it — said Obama was "pallin' around with terrorists." We all know she was referring to William Ayres, the former leader of the Weathermen, a radical anti-war group from the 60s and early 70s.

His militant opposition to the Vietnam War and his subsequent actions occurred when he was in his 20s and Obama was 8.

Somehow — in repeating this rap over and over — Governor Palin neglects to mention that Ayres, now 63, is a leader in education reform and a Distinguished Professor at the College of Education at the University of Illinois at Chicago.

With the "terrorist" number and her standard misrepresentation about Obama's remarks on Afghanistan, she is whipping crowds into a dangerous, misguided frenzy. Shouts of "treason!" and "terrorist!" accompany mention of Obama at McCain/Palin rallies.

It doesn't seem to occur to her that she is playing a perilous game that can lead to tragedy.

Which is not surprising — she's a dim bulb with a bizarre moral compass.

Thank God she'll never be vice-president.

What is genuinely surprising — and sounds the death knell for McCain's campaign — is this:

With a massive financial crisis that he stood by and watched develop (you can't vote with George Bush 92% of the time and call yourself Maverick — or Goose or Iceman for that matter ...)

With a $10-billion-a-month wrong-headed war that he consistently championed ...

With a health-care situation that just may be the thing that brings violent protests back to the streets ...

With all that and much more ...

With the country hungering for real leadership ...

McCain went and Swift-boated Obama.

He Karl-Roved the poor bastard.

John McCain has become what he despises.

I didn't think he would.

He knows no depths, does he?

Thank God he's lost the election.

John McCain Hates Me ... and You ... and Especially You

2008-09-30T08:34:00.001-07:00

If you pay attention long enough, people eventually reveal their true selves. Senator John McCain did just that — beyond any shadow of a doubt — yesterday.

McCain derisively asks Sarah Palin if her exchange outside Tony Luke's in Philadelphia with Temple Phd candidate Michael Rovito happened at a "pizza place." As if that were utterly beneath her ... and himself.

No matter how hard McCain tries to tell us that he is a man of the people, that he is a maverick, that he is different ... he just isn't. He is a privileged, cynical, mean-spirited rich guy who clearly has no respect for:

a) the intelligence of those who may frequent or work at a beloved family-owned institution that offers great food at affordable prices and goes out of its way to support the troops McCain pays lip service to at every opportunity.

b) Michael Rovito — a tax-paying serious-minded voter who would like to know what the hell is going on in Sarah Palin's head.

(Oh yeah — Rovito is involved in researching ethnic studies, minority health disparities, immigration, and implementing Geographic Information Systems to the field of epidemiology and public health — what a selfish, grandstanding prick he is.)

There was no "gotcha journalism" as McCain alleged. Nor was anything taken out of context. Sarah Palin was asked questions at a close range and in a reasonable tone of voice and she gave her answers.

I feel sorry for Sarah Palin now. She is so completely overwhelmed that you can actually see her aging over the course of an interview. She has quickly become a punchline and there appears to be no way out for her.

She is in for the most humiliating month of her life.

But back to Senator McCain — who evidently is a borderline compulsive gambler and classic backroom casino wheeler-dealer as well as a dick.

I mean — do we really need another condescending, vindictive president who has lost all touch with the day-to-day reality of the people he wants to lead? McCain is an angry old man with no real regard for you and me. He seems to be losing the ability to tell the truth with each passing day. And in the process — he must have gone to the Senate Appropriations committee and secured first dibs on George Bush's smirk.

I used to like John McCain. When you get snippets here and there of him, you can be fooled. He can come across like a tough, honest customer.

But — in the end — who is he?

A man who has ridden the war hero horse a long, long way, who ditched his first wife after she was disfigured in a car accident, who is as slick a dealmaker as any other Washington insider and now arrives on history's doorstep a damaged, arrogant, angry jackass.

Don't we deserve better?

Also — a word about debates. I believe that the candidates should not debate each other. I think the truth will be revealed only if John McCain debates a regular old registered Democrat and Barack Obama debates an everyday registered Republican.

Rather than sparring, pouting and making grand empty pronouncements, they would have to give real answers and talk to someone who lives in the real world.

I volunteer to debate McCain. I think it should take place at Tony Luke's.

Now all I have to do is open a casino and maybe he'll return my call.

CREATIVITY DISTILLED

2008-09-24T20:30:00.000-07:00

There are always people in your life who — somehow — make you want to be better.

On a daily basis, my wife and daughter inspire me to want to be more than I am.

In all aspects of my life.

And then there are artists — creative tsunamis — who humble and inspire ... who make you want to ... to ... just do. And do whatever it is you have to do better than you did it before.

Jeff Parise is one such force of nature.

And if you don't know who the hell he is ... well, that is about to change.

And not a minute too soon.

In the seven and half years I've known him, Jeff has revealed, refined and expanded his talents as an actor, a painter, a writer, a director, a musician.

Jeff Parise is creativity distilled.

And he does it all in a way that does not make you want to kick his ass for being so gifted.

Jeff and I met doing a film together — and despite the fact that he is from Indiana and couldn't give a shit about basketball — we became friends.

Along the way, I (and my wife Lisa) turned him on to Egon Schiele. He turned me onto
Wim Wenders. He's asked me for advice. I've seeked out his counsel.

In theory, actors and artists must support one another — because that support only makes all of us stronger, better, more alive. Because, the theory goes, there is not a finite amount of talent in the world. Your talent makes my talent more vital.

In practice, it's often a world of jealousy, duplicity and warped competition.

Jeff Parise proves the theory in his practice of it. He's an artist who genuinely supports artists.

If you are in Los Angeles between now and next Friday go see Callback: The Unmaking of 'Bloodstain

Support real independent film ... and a guy who truly deserves it.

Congrats, JVP.

P.S. Jeff — as you travel along your path to world entertainment domination, I feel compelled to remind you that I am currently available for acting work — especially since my daughter wants to go to private school ... and Yale.

Diminished ...

2008-09-24T19:30:00.000-07:00

(ORIGINALLY POSTED ON SEPTEMBER 8, 2008 ON www.brothersmcc.blogspot.com)

Is it possible to run for the highest office in the land and be a statesman/stateswoman? To do it with dignity?

It seems the answer is a resounding "No."

The bruising primary season quickly turned candidates into (or magnified their propensity toward) triple-talking, back-stabbing, soul-selling hucksters before the campaign buses even cleared the New Hampshire state line.

And when the smoke cleared and the wreckage had been shoved to the shoulder — the ultimate prize nearly in sight — the two survivors released their hounds ... er ... vice-presidential picks.

And now the VP hopefuls have stepped into the ring like Chris Jericho and Beth Phoenix, ready to rip each other and their respective bosses apart all over again.

(ed. — googling the above names of the current WWE champions constitutes an all-time high in BrothersMcC research)

I used to not give a shit.

You may currently not give a shit.

But this election has the feel of "pivotal" all over it.

You may say "All presidential elections are pivotal, halfwit."

And you'd be right ... especially the halfwit part.

But, for some reason, this one has the air of tragedy about it. And the tragedy is that — in the face of such staggering history being made with Barack Obama and Sarah Palin involved — we insist on making those who would become the leaders of the free world diminish themselves as human beings.

We force them to lie, exaggerate, attack, slander, hurl petty insults over and over again, air fifth-grade-level commercials and generally behave like total assholes.

Then we ask them to lead us.

"Well there, Kevin, that's the name of the game in high-stakes politics. It's dog-eat-dog. If you don't like it — move to Iceland, you big pussy."

Yeah but as we demand that these people humiliate themselves on a global stage (and then expect them to inspire us and unite us?) — we diminish ourselves.

It was sad to see Joe Biden follow his son's moving introduction with an overwrought, frothing barkfest at the Democratic National Convention. It should have been the crowning moment for a guy who has overcome more adversity than those poor bastards on Prison Break. Instead, he was borderline nutty. His speech had a hint of violence to it. And he was talking about John McCain, a long-time friend.

And as historic and genuinely exciting as Sarah Palin's appearance was at the Republican National Convention — and it was, you can't deny it — her speech was condescending and nasty. She was poised, she was tough, she was spoiling for a fight.

She was really fucking annoying.

Just like every other politician.

And the saddest --- and most diminishing --- part of it all is that it means nothing.

What these four people say and promise in the next 60 days will bear little, if any, resemblance to their actions.

Mavericks?

Change?

Really, who are we kidding?

Couldn't we have used the money for these dorkfests ... um I mean ... conventions for something like, say, people in New Orleans still waiting for a bed to sleep in or the 750 homeless veterans wandering lost in the wilds of Columbus, Ohio.

Of course not.

Because this is the way things are done.

And with politicians, we expect them — deep down — to be scumbags. As long as they're our scumbags.

We will put up with — and even cheer — all the bullshit campaign promises and flip-floppery that all politicians shovel at us. We know its part of the deal. Politicians must lie, cheat and betray to get shit done.

And we're cool with that.

As long as they keep up their end of the unspoken bargain:

Keep us safe, housed and fed.

Keep our sons and daughters in the military from eating any unnecessary bullets and shrapnel. And when they go and do our fighting for us, take care of them when they come back.

Keep everyone — and goddammit, we mean everyone! — equal.

That's the government's job.

That's the president's job.

Everything else is gravy — or pork.

Consider Iraq, Afghanistan, Katrina, gas prices, food prices, the current housing situation, corruption, cronyism, scrap-heaped veterans, rising unemployment, appalling public schools and the prospect (from both sides of the aisle) of religious ideology splashing over the sides of the reflecting pool, across the lawn and into the halls of Congress.

Then ask yourself ...

Who's the best lying, exaggerating, scheming, borderline criminal gladhander for the job?

See ya at the polls!

Oh yeah! Almost forgot — BrothersMcC has its first scoop!! Below is a sneak preview of the Vice-Presidential debate, courtesy of a somewhat lesser-known Palin.

The Spiritual Arms Race

2008-09-24T19:27:00.000-07:00

(ORIGINALLY POSTED ON AUGUST 9, 2008 ON www.brothersmcc.blogspot.com)

There is a spiritual arms race afoot.

A knock-down-drag-out steel cage match for the title of Most Religious.

Whoever wins ... becomes president.

Seriously.

John McCain is so desperate that he's claimed to be a Baptist while stumping in Baptist country. For the record, the dude's an Episcopalian.

For now.

Barack Obama trumpets his Christianity at every turn. And consistently touts the necessity of spirituality and religious insight for successful governance and the healing of our country.

Both are simply trying to get elected. And sound like teenagers trying to convince Dad to give them the keys to the Buick for the weekend.

The Republican Party has been trading on fire and brimstone for ages, so, ya know, whatever.

But now, the Democratic Party — tired of God-Squad dominance and presidential election defeats at the hands of dolts like our current Prayer-in-Chief — has decided to drink the Jesus juice and roll the ideological dice.

And the newest face of this effort — Leah Daughtry — is a case study in everything that is wrong with over-heated religiosity.

Early on in the recent New York Times Magazine profile of her, Leah Daughtry reveals herself as another in a long line of prominent political frauds, using her ideology to convince us that she -- and those who share her point of view — are Holier Than Thou.

Well ... Holier Than Me at least.

Daughtry is Howard Dean's Chief of Staff and she is in charge of the Democratic National Convention — and she's a Pentecostal minister.

In the article, she is preaching at her father's House of the Lord Church in Brooklyn and celebrating a congregant's triumph over breast cancer.

Daughtry gives credit for this medical victory to the exceptional quality of prayer supplied by the women members of the church, saying:

"The eggheads will say her chemotherapy worked, but everyone who uses chemotherapy isn’t cured.”

First, I'm not sure who the "eggheads" are. I can only assume she's referring to sane people.

Second — my mother died of cancer. She underwent chemotherapy. She prayed for a cure. Her family prayed for a cure. All her friends prayed for a cure.

Does this mean the Catholic prayers in Southeastern Pennsylvania weren't as potent as those in Brooklyn? Did God give the faithful from St. Denis in suburban Philadelphia a big holy raspberry — and decide that my mother was not spiritually committed enough to live?

Leah Daughtry's remark exposes religious ideology for what it is — "Our God is better than your god."

A less sophisticated writer than myself might — at this point — say something inflammatory like "Leah Daughtry can go fuck herself" but I'm cut from a finer cloth.

Instead, I submit that it is time to form a new political party — the "Fuck Ideologies."

Who's with me?

Is it necessary for me to pick on Leah Daughtry?

I think so.

Why?

Because she will soon have the ear of Barack Obama. Because everyone is racing to claim the Most Religious crown for their party, their candidate, their government. Because religious ideology is hypocritical at best and murderous at worst.

And because Leah Daughtry says that, for her, "the Bible is history."

Please ...

Let's clear one thing up right now — the Bible is not literal history for anyone. There are no people following the dictates of the Bible word for word. And anyone who says they are is lying. And any political figure who says they are is not only lying but dangerous.

Everyone — and by "everyone" I tend to mean, well, all people currently living — everyone who consults the Bible picks and chooses from the Good Book. They select what serves their needs. A spiritual 7-11 if you will.

Ideology is the proud father of hypocrisy. And when ideology and hypocrisy hook up with ambition — the worst kind of family reunion takes place ... one that ends with guns going off, tanks rolling in, RPGs whizzing by, rights disappearing, tolerance evaporating and young men and women being memoralized in the local newspaper.

President Bush said that he consulted with God about the war in Iraq — and that has sustained him and kept him steadfast.

Talk about covering your ass.

But of course Bush didn't talk with God — he talked with Cheney, who we all know fell from Heaven and now battles God for the souls of mankind.

Okay, yes, spirituality is the centerpiece of many people's lives.

And, yes, that spirituality helps shape one's point of view of the world.

But when you get in a spiritual arms race and you openly compete to prove you are God's favorite — the canary in the coal mine starts to experience shortness of breath.

Leah Daughtry says a bunch of other nutty things in the article — like her experiences speaking in tongues (brilliant actually — its unassailable because its supposed to be gibberish) and that she was a reluctant participant in the public arena (hence the splashy New York Times Magazine article).

I'm sure its not all Leah Daughtry's fault.

I'm sure she's a good friend and a loving daughter.

But do we really need religious ideology to know that we should be decent to one another? Or keep our country's citizens safe? Or have our trash picked up?

Leah Daughtry thinks God prefers the Pentecostal way. A born-again former co-worker of mine believes that Jews and Muslims have no shot at heaven. Many devout Catholic are closet racists.

What does that even mean?

It means that — ultimately — organized, ambitious religious ideology will divide us.

Our common humanity is what will unite us.

Swear to God.

The True Meaning of Love ...

2008-09-24T19:25:00.000-07:00

(ORIGINALLY POSTED JULY 20, 2008 ON www.brothersmcc.blogspot.com)

... is taking your kid to American Idols Live 2008.

Holy Money Grab.

Most Disturbing (yet hilariously true) Moment: While runner-up Idol David Archuleta was warbling along, he was bathed in a light that was blatantly phallic.

There was a circular outcropping at the front of the stage and it was awash in white light that extended past the little fellah in a ramrod straight line and ended with a bulbous flourish just beyond.

And if that wasn't enough — and, again, I am crapping you negative — swirling around the circular ball-sac-ish outcropping were dozens of very sperm-ish-looking lights. Lisa and I nearly choked on our Cracker Jacks and bargain-basement $7 flat Bud Lights. Never in my life have I seen so many parents looking around for independent confirmation of what they were witnessing.

Then ... then! ... at the end of Archuleta's song, the sperm lights exited in unison — as if the music gods had just climaxed (a wet dream, no doubt, since they surely were asleep by that point.)

It was a bizarre sedative of a concert — complete with a gigantic Pop-Tart mascot, a desultory Guitar Hero video game contest, all the female performers mechanically shaking booty (except piano-bound Brooke White) as if the audience were full of drunk out-of-town businessmen armed with a stack of singles, and all 10 performers each imploring the crowd to make more noise — where only that Aussie dude Michael Johns seemed to inject any real fun or emotion into the proceedings.

In the end ...

Our daughter had the time of her life.

Upon reflection ... Greatest Concert Ever.

A Love Letter ...

2008-09-24T19:21:00.000-07:00

ORIGINALLY POSTED ON JULY 14, 2008 ON www.brothersmcc.blogspot.com

"The real job of any actor is to retain an urgent need to become a better actor."

The renowned acting teacher Larry Moss said something like that ... as far as I know. And, as is our custom at BrothersMcC, I didn't bother to look up the exact quote. I liked this one just fine. It struck me as truthful.

And difficult to fulfill.

When I first moved to New York to pursue acting — shortly after FDR left office — I had seen exactly zero plays.

Actually, that's not true — my high school buddies and I went to Archbishop Carroll's production of Inherit The Wind. We snuck beers in and, being the assholes we were, laughed out loud during all the dramatic moments.

Talk about denial ...

Anyway ....

The first play I ever witnessed — sober — was the original production of Burn This by Lanford Wilson at the Plymouth Theater.

I had been in New York just a few months and had done little but tend bar, drink with an angry focus and expand my working knowledge of recreational drugs. I could not have been further from being an actor. I was beginning to think I had made the worst mistake of my life.

Then John Malkovich made his entrance in Burn This and two and a half hours later, all doubt had been scorched away. If ever I could do to someone else what Malkovich did to me that night, it would be worth any humiliation, hardship or hangover. I knew what I wanted to do with the rest of my life.

In the intervening years, I've been able to scrape together work as an actor.

But I also drifted about as far as one could from that night at the Plymouth Theater. I effectively gave up the theater — not that the theater was knocking my door down or anything but ... I became that dude — the one waiting for the phone to ring, dying for that next chance to be "Cop #2" on CSI — which, coincidentally, I am currently available for, if Carol Kritzer is reading this blog — and I think we all know she is.

I have spent an inordinate amount of time doing — and pursuing — work of dubious artistic worth. But that's the gig for 96% of us and that is cool (surprisingly — health insurance, mortgage payments and food aren't included with your SAG card) — as long as there is something else. I mean, after a while, the question has to be revisited — "Why the fuck did you become an actor in the first place ... and, more to the point, why are you still at it?"

Well, I was lucky enough to be reminded of both "why's" over and over again during the past two months — working on the play Stones in His Pockets by Marie Jones.

It was — by turns — frustrating, exhilarating, terrifying and joyful.

It was theater.

I felt like an actor.

And no amount of gratitude can convey how thankful I am to still have my hat in the ring.

Secure in the knowledge that I will never be nominated for any award any time soon (okay — maybe I have an outside shot at, say, "Creepiest Villain Who Bears An Uncanny Resemblance To Kevin Bacon") I will now thank the people who have instilled, nurtured and resurrected the 2nd greatest love affair in my life.

Whether you all share in my thanks and/or resurrection is another story entirely.

But screw it — why wait till they're all dead:

To Greg Zittel — A teacher of blinding intensity and fierce dedication to the creative spirit. Any seriousness of purpose I may have acquired as an actor came from him.

To Wynn Handman — Easily the most influential — and the best — acting teacher the country has seen in the last fifty years. If you don't believe me — just ask Alec Baldwin, James Caan, Kathleen Chalfant, Chris Cooper, Michael Douglas, Allison Janney, Frank Langella, John Leguizamo, Mira Sorvino, Christopher Walken, Denzel Washington, and Joanne Woodward.

To my students — As flaky and kooky as they are, they have no idea how much they have taught me. I'm in their debt ... not monetarily, of course (just so there's no confusion on the first Tuesday of the month)

To Jimmy Bohr — Improbably, we've both ended up in Columbus, OH. Not so improbably, he is the best director I've ever worked with. His patience and insight made Stones In His Pockets an experience that will be difficult to top. And, Jesus Christ Almighty, does he make unreal German potato salad.

To Jon Osbeck — Who knew a Swedish half-Jew could pull off six Irish characters, a Scottish bodyguard and a chick ... and be a better Irish step dancer than I am? And the fucker built our deck. And he plays piano. And he can sing.
On second thought, let's beat the shit out of him.

To Lisa — I don't know ... I assume every actor has a spouse who says "Hey, I have an idea — let's form a company and do Irish theater. And if you drag your feet, I'll keep after you because — you moody, thick bastard — I know a great idea when I have one even if you don't. So we're doing this play and I know you'll take all the credit afterward but that's cool because I'll know the truth and that's good enough for me."

Well, Lisa, now everyone (or at least the eight people who read this blog) knows the truth. You are extraordinary.

REMEMBER THEM TODAY ... AND TOMORROW ... AND ...

2008-09-24T19:16:00.000-07:00

ORIGINALLY POSTED ON MAY 25, 2008 at www.brothersmcc.blogspot.com

Take a look at that face.

See it.

Study it.

Imagine what kind of life led up to that photo.

Imagine the countless people touched by that face.

Please look at it one more time.

That's Sgt. John "Kyle" Daggett, 22, Airborne Army Ranger from Phoenix, AZ.

He died earlier this month from injuries sustained when an airburst mortar exploded over the armored vehicle he was traveling in.

Daggett was in the rear gun hatch, exposed, along with another soldier when the explosion occurred in Baghdad.

Sgt. Daggett's injuries were overwhelming yet he made it from Baghdad to Germany to Halifax, Nova Scotia, where he finally succumbed.

I know absolutely nothing about Sgt. Daggett's life, except that he died a hero. And that, after the mortar exploded, the driver of the vehicle who recovered enough to drive "like a bat out of hell to the evac site, taking out vehicles, utility poles and anything else in his way" was my nephew James McCarthy.

Jimmy is still there. In harm's way. And now he is a veteran — he is still on active duty, of course, but he is a veteran. For our sake — he now knows what most of us will never know and has seen what most of us will never see.

For our sake.

I can imagine, but I cannot comprehend, what that reality is like.

It seems the only way to be a truly concerned and engaged citizen, not only of this country but of the world is to make it personal. Make it specific.

Look at that picture of Sgt. Daggett once again.

See what was sacrificed.

That is specific.

Imagining my nephew in the chaos of battle.

That is specific.

The burden of the unknown carried by his mother — my sister — every day.

That is specific.

The injuries sustained by SPC Shane Stuard — who was riding alongside Sgt. Daggett — are specific.

Shane, a father of three, is recovering from his injuries at Walter Reed Army Medical Center.

We hear he digs mail — especially from kids.
Take a minute, remember and send it to:

SPC Shane Stuard
Walter Reed Army Medical Center
Ward 57
6900 Georgia Avenue NW
Washington DC 20307

I'm anti-war. I think any sane person is.

But I am pro-soldier ... because war is the worst thing on this earth and soldiers know it and they choose to do it anyway — so the rest of us don't have to.

I once was in a room with four Vietnam veterans and a Desert Storm veteran. The conversation centered on Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder and the realities of being a soldier. At one point, the Desert Storm vet looked me in the eye and asked, "How come you never served your country?" There was no malice in the asking, but all conversation stopped and everyone waited for an answer.

I had no answer that seemed adequate so I told the truth, "I made the choice to avail myself of the freedoms that you have fought to provide me ... Thank you."

And one of the Vietnam vets stuck out a hand and said, "Fair enough. You're welcome."

I shook his hand and remembered my old man talking about fighting in the South Pacific in World War II. And what that cost him.

Now I remember my nephew Jimmy in Baghdad and his buddy Shane at Walter Reed.

Most of all, though, I think I'll remember that face in the picture.

And I'll try to remember the cost of my freedom.

OXFORD INT'L FILM FESTIVAL: FILM, BEER, FOOD AND BEER

2008-05-06T05:52:00.000-07:00

Evidently, film festivals are where dietary considerations and exercise regimens go to die. And they die a relatively happy death — because the Oxford International Film Festival was quite fun.

Do you want the travelogue replete with witty remarks about the preponderance of cows and scary highway rest areas?

No?

Cool.

We'll hit you with the relevant facts and let you get on with your life.

Lisa and I were stashed away in a primo room at the Marcum Conference Center — the de facto hub of the festival. We were directly across the hall from Donna D'Errico and her two kids, though we wouldn't actually see them until the next day at the Actors Panel.

The first thing we did was grab some food. Actually, the real first thing we did was grab some umbrellas because it was pouring rain. We'd been told to expect a bevy of dining alternatives within walking distance of the Marcum. We didn't realize that the "walking distance" frame of reference used by our host was of the college-kid-in-flip-flops-during-an-artic-blast-who-cares-if-we-get-
soaked-we're-friggin'-19 variety.

Being on the geezer side of the median age range — and hungry — and thirsty — we got umbrellas ... and beer.

The food was good at 45 East Bar and Grill in downtown Oxford, Ohio and they poured a respectable pint of Guinness.

A good harbinger — if you put stock in harbingers.

Our first cinematic experience was a block of documentary shorts — we hung in for one about the mysterious death and disappearance of honey bees in the U.S. The we got hit with one about stock-car-racing evangelical pastors. It was a bittersweet character study that ranged from fundamentalist shouters to borderline- clowns-at-a-kids-party-with-bad-intent. All champion perspirers.

One definite highlight of the festival was the first feature-length film we saw. My guess is that Kabluey will never make it into your multi-plex (or your single-plex, for that matter) and that sucks for you because this movie is funnier than most of the stuff currently on the docket.

Writer/Director/Star Scott Prendergast recruited the likes of Lisa Kudrow, Christine Taylor, Jeffrey Dean Morgan and an utterly ego-less and, frankly, very ballsy Teri Garr for a sweetly quirky and often hilarious tale of redemption.

Remember this movie. It'll be out on DVD soon, I bet. Its worth the time.

Lisa had to make a premature exit the next day — but not before a rigorous night of classic festival boozery with the gang from The Lodge. Our daughter was sick and Lisa — being a far more responsible parent than I — went home to take care of her.

Later that day, I had the pleasure of sitting on an Actors Panel that was moderated by the delightfully no-nonsense director John Putch, whose very funny Bachelorman was in the festival competition and racked up the largest audiences we saw all weekend. The other panelists included Ms. D'Errico, who was in the ensemble drama Intervention and was the target of my shameless pestering since Intervention was directed by Mary McGuckian, who is married to the estimable John Lynch. In addition, there was Rodney Lee Conover (whose stand-up act provided the basis for Bachelorman), Clyde Kusatsu, who's been in practically every movie and TV show made in the last twenty years and is a top-notch storyteller, and Mike Landry, star of the film Frost.

The panel was lively and most memorable for the story Clyde told about getting axed by his agency of 18 years right after doing The Interpreter, with some ne'er-do-wells named Kidman and Penn. It was bracing to be reminded that working more steadily than 98.7% of all the other actors out there means ... well ... nothing to
certain dull-witted agents who shall remain (Paradigm) nameless.

I mean, Clyde was on Ironside, for Chrissake!! And has not stopped to take a breather since. Seriously, what the fuck, Paradigm!? Your roster just too full of talented, gracious and genuinely nice actors who work non-stop?

The Lodge screened twice and pulled a Villanova-Namath-Eruzione-esque upset, sharing the Audience Award with hometown favorite Eastern College. I missed the jubilant celebration at the awards dinner and the (no doubt) witty, self-deprecatingly irreverent acceptance speech by directors Brad Helmink and John Rauschelbach.

I had left that morning — after a final night of free food and booze — a night that saw one supremely creepy, hapless, balding, middle-aged dude trolling the reception for teenage girls with an invite to the "After-After party", which coincidentally happened to be back at his place.

In the woods.

In a lodge, I think.

YOU WANT FUNNY? THIS GUY IS FUNNY!

2008-04-10T11:37:00.001-07:00

Do you know who Harold Lloyd is? He is the least known of the three silent-film-era comic geniuses.

There is Charlie Chaplin. There is Buster Keaton. And there is Harold Lloyd.

Chaplin and Keaton remain household names; brands even.

It is Harold Lloyd, though, who is the father of the romantic comedy. He pioneered the film image of the regular guy — a living, breathing person we recognize — who gets caught up in all kinds of wackiness as he tries to get the most basic things — the girl, friends, a decent job.

Harold Lloyd made roughly a gazillion films — shorts and feature length. Although routinely labeled a movie snob in this space — I had never actually seen a Harold Lloyd film until Wednesday night.

Oh, I had seen DVD cases in which Harold Lloyd's films were kept. The things are found in abundance around the home of Joe Furey and Alison Brown — two of the most generous and hospitable human beings on the planet, by the way.

Joe and Alison graciously board me at their wonderful residence anytime I am in Los Angeles — often at a moment's notice. They, in short, save my ass repeatedly and are great company besides. Alison is a recently minted Phd and a clinical psychologist. Joe is a writer/director/actor of much renown and one of only a handful of people who have made me injure myself through excessive laughter.

Joe's love of vintage comedy films is boundless and yet he'll never force it on you. Therefore, any time we watch movies together, its up to me. And I never pick Harold Lloyd — or anything silent. I didn't get it. I was convinced it wouldn't be all that funny.

I was wrong.

I was dead wrong.

I was as wrong as a Taco Bell/Sierra Nevada Pale Ale hangover fart in a crowded New Orleans greenhouse.

On April 2 Joe invited me to a screening of The Freshman at the AFI Institute up in the Hollywood Hills. The crowd was Joe and I and a flock of young filmmakers — plus Harold Lloyd's granddaughter, Suzanne Lloyd, who is in charge of all her grandfather's films and has made it her life's work to bring his films to the public.

The Freshman is hilarious. It is the direct ancestor of — and way funnier than — Adam Sandler's The Waterboy. It also had to be an enormous influence on the current George Clooney effort Leatherheads.

The next day, Joe and I watched Safety Last! — it has the one Harold Lloyd image I was already familiar with:

And Safety Last! was as funny as The Freshman.

Maybe alot of you are already hip to Harold Lloyd but I'm going to assume that you are as pig-headed as I have been.

In The Freshman and Safety Last1, Harold Lloyd brings something recognizable to the screen. His comedy — often rigorously physical — always has the bite of reality. And subtlety. Lloyd was no ham. He was just funny, inventive and a great actor.

Take a break from Fool's Gold, Run, Fatboy, Run, and Drillbit Taylor and enjoy the genuine article.

Harold Lloyd — the funniest man ever to wear glasses.

OFF THE BEATEN ST. PATRICK'S PATH — John Lynch

2008-03-14T20:05:00.001-07:00

A native of Newry, Northern Ireland, John Lynch has been called the cinematic face of the Irish Troubles. On screen, he also has two-timed Gwyneth Paltrow, romped with Lassie and been one of the most touching schizophrenics in film history.

You'll recognize his face, no doubt, but John Lynch is one of the greatest actors you've never heard of.

Liam Neeson, Colin Farrell, Colm Meaney and the incomparable Daniel-Day Lewis are the branded faces of Irish film. John Lynch is it's quiet soul.

He arrived on the film scene indelibly with Cal in 1984. Playing the title character — a reluctant IRA terrorist — Lynch brings a haunting sensitivity and depth to the affecting story of Cal's love affair with the widow (a stunning Helen Mirren) of the man he helped to kill.

Cal, like Lynch, is an under-appreciated classic.

Lynch was part of the combustible cast of Derek Jarman's searing Edward II (1991) as well as the heartbroken Lord Craven in the sweet and sumptuous film version of The Secret Garden (1993) — his first taste of commercial success. That same year came In The Name of The Father, as Lynch played Paul Hill alongside the Oscar-nominated Day-Lewis as Gerry Conlon — half of the railroaded Guilford Four. Deservedly so, the powerful, moving film was nominated for Best Picture.

Now on a full-fledged great-movie binge — Lynch, in the next three years, went from John Sayles' The Secret of Roan Inish to Angel Baby, where he was wondrous as a schizophrenic fighting for love and his independence to Nothing Personal — possibly his greatest performance — as a young father trying to stay apolitical in 1975 Belfast to his indelible turn as doomed hunger striker Bobby Sands in Some Mother's Son — which reunited him with Helen Mirren.

Lynch is probably best-known to American audiences as the feckless boyfriend in Sliding Doors (1998) — which not only stars Gwyneth Paltrow but has been seen by Trip McClatchy nigh on 400 times.

In the intervening ten years Lynch has continued to give finely etched performances — most notably in the mini-series Bleak House, the latest incarnation of Lassie and as legendary soccer star George Best.

In every role — John Lynch finds its heart. And you believe him. He's an artist.

You could do a lot worse than a John Lynch film festival this St. Patrick's Day.

JUST RIDICULOUS !!

2008-03-14T20:03:00.001-07:00

Try as we might to bring the St. Patrick's Day countdown your way, the absolute magic of college hoops and BrothersMcC mojo refuses to be ignored.

John Noonan's (that's him administering the bear hug) favorite descriptive adjective is "ridiculous." It is summoned for good, ill and anything in between.

And now it must be applied to Ursinus College basketball.

These guys are ridiculous.

Tonight Ursinus took on last year's national runner-up Virginia Wesleyan (of the powerful — and I mean POWERFUL — Old Dominion Athletic Conference — which has produced its share of great teams, D-III Hall-of-Famers and slow, earthbound, fundamentally sound, Irish-American hotheads who get in fights and nearly tossed from games minutes after tip-off when their families have driven five hours to watch them play ... okay maybe just one of those.)

This second-round match-up had "Bad News" written all over it for Ursinus. Their leading scorer and All-American Nick Shattuck was hobbled by a painful bruised heel and Virginia Wesleyan was fast, physical and experienced.

By the way — this Shattuck fellah was cut from his high school freshman team and squeaked on JV as a sophomore. Now he's a college All-American. Mover over, Rudy. Here's a picture of the dude:

Long story short — Virginia Wesleyan comes out smokin' and Ursinus is down 17 at half time. Shattuck has as many points as I do to complement his three fouls and John Noonan is clanging everything outside two feet.

But soph guard Matt Hilton is on fire — or as his notorious relative might say, "hot."
And 6-10 Michael Shema is beating up Virginia Wesleyan inside.

In the second half — Ursinus chips away, Virginia Wesleyan gets tight, Nick Shattuck absolutely guts it out and scores huge bucket after huge bucket, Noonan finds the range and some French dude named Cousart has a zillion assists. Ursinus comes all the way back and finally takes the lead 60-59 as John Noonan, showing hops foreign to the rest of his gene pool, converts a sweet alley oop play.

It see saws the next couple of minutes. Helfferich Hall is pandemonium, my sister — John Noonan's mother — is in cardiac arrest, her husband — John's dad — is quietly aging decades and my nephew Sean is apparently plotting a media grab (see above photo — and dig the Ohio State sweatshirt — purchased by the wife and yours truly. Kid has taste.)

Ursinus rides clutch play and a collective huge pair to a mind-boggling 70-64 comeback win for the ages. And a spot in the Sweet Sixteen. And quite possibly the greatest post-game celebration picture in sports photo-journalism history.

Reached for comment following the game, John Noonan characterized the comeback, the photo, the gutcheck, the Sweet Sixteen, the celebratory embrace with teammate Keith Page, the Freak-a-Deak photo jubilation of his cousin Sean and the length of this sentence as ...

"ridiculous."

OFF THE BEATEN ST. PATRICK'S PATH — Roddy Doyle

2008-03-14T20:01:00.000-07:00

(ed. note: First things first — never underestimate the power of a blog entry. To wit:
I ignited an Ursinus-hoops-tastic burst of blog activity earlier this week — focusing on young John Noonan (great-grandson of Irish immigrants, mind you.) Tonight the Ursinus College Bears defeated Bible Baptist, 94-76, in the 1st round of the NCAA tourney. Noonan — in his first game flush with BrothersMcC mojo — promptly went off for a career-high 28 points.
We do what we can.)

Now for today's offering:

Most everyone knows about The Commitments — the wildly popular movie about the fictional ragtag Irish band that finds success. The Commitments was originally a novel written by the great Irish author Roddy Doyle. It later was included in The Barrytown Trilogy — along with his next two novels, The Snapper and The Van — both of which also became films.

Doyle won the Booker Prize for his 1993 novel Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha. But the spotlight we throw today is on my favorite from the pen of Mr. Doyle:

A Star Called Henry

Profane, profound, and laugh-out-loud funny, it is Doyle's best. He gives us one of the most memorable characters in recent fiction in Henry Smart — born in 1902 into grinding Dublin poverty to a one-legged father who works as a whorehouse bouncer and uses his wooden leg to keep the peace.

If that doesn't hook you — you can kiss my ass.

We follow Henry — memoir-style — as he makes his way through a tumultuous childhood to joining the cause of Irish independence and ... I'll say no more. Except Henry meets many an historical figure along the way.

Writing this good is rare.

So go get the thing and read it. Hell, it was published in 1999. It's gotta be in paperback by now, you cheapskates!

A Star Called Henry is Volume One of The Last Roundup.
Volume Two is Oh! Play That Thing — it's good but not nearly the masterpiece A Star Called Henry is.

That's right, I said masterpiece. Problem, friend?

OFF THE BEATEN ST. PATRICK'S PATH — Sinead

2008-03-14T19:59:00.000-07:00

Over the next few days, I'll endeavor to bring you some of the less-well-trod options for cultural Irish enhancement.

As beloved as they may be — you'll not find The Quiet Man, The Clancy Brothers or James Joyce in these pages. It's about new experiences, forgotten gems, hidden treasures.

And, please — for the love of all that is good and holy, Michael Collins and John F. Kennedy — NO GREEN BEER.

Today's offering:

Just because she's a split-personality nutcase who is a danger not only to herself but record executives and authority figures everywhere — we cannot forget that Sinead O'Connor is possibly the greatest female vocalist in Ireland's illustrious history.

She is brilliant, petulant, unhinged, beautiful, infuriating, inspiring, heartbreaking and, in the end, mysterious. Just like the country she hails from, tortures and reveres.

Here she reminds us of our common humanity:

THE LAST TRUE AMATEURS LOVE THE GAME — AND MAKE HISTORY

2008-03-14T19:57:00.001-07:00

There is a plaque that hangs just inside The Palestra, the legendary basketball arena on the campus of the University of Pennsylvania in Philadelphia. It reads:

"To win the game is great. To play the game is greater. But to love the game is the greatest of all."

That quote may apply to the legions of Division I players that have made history at the Palestra through the years. But nowhere does it apply more than in the relative obscurity of Division III basketball.

There are no scholarships. There is no TV deal. There are no coach's endorsements. And many times, there are no fans.

The players in Division III are the last true student-athletes. They aren't going pro and they aren't getting famous. And they play hoops for themselves, their teammates and the love of the game.

And these guys can play. Really play.

And while the college basketball landscape is dominated by the March to Madness, Bob Knight's bail-out and Kelvin Sampson's compulsive scuzzball behavior history was quietly being made, Division III-style, not forty minutes from that famed plaque at the Palestra.

Ursinus College, in Collegeville, Pa., became the first team in Centennial Conference history to go undefeated in conference play. The Bears hit 18-0 with a 72-69 nail-biter over Muhlenberg on Saturday.

The Bears have an All-American scoring machine in senior Nick Shattuck. They also have an emerging star in junior guard John Noonan.

You will read very little about Nick Shattuck the rest of the way because John Noonan is my nephew and I'm going to brag about him from here on out.

Nick — sorry, dude.

And in keeping with strict BrothersMcc protocol, I am writing this without benefit of actually having seen any of the games — which in no way diminishes my expert opinion and insights. That said ...

John Noonan is the quintessential D-III hoopster.

He was the best player at his high school — tiny Friends Select in Philadelphia. He had the chance to transfer to bigger high schools that played in more competitive leagues but he chose not to. Friends Select was his school and the guys were his teammates.

In the summers, John held his own against some of the best players in the city — many of whom went to D-I schools.

Ursinus, a perennial power in D-III, recruited him. And off he went, tagged as the school's next great player.

And he struggled.

The transition from Friends Select-type competition to top-flight college hoops was a huge challenge. John played sparingly as a freshman — he was tentative. He put pressure on himself. He got frustrated. His jumper deserted him.

But he kept working. He worked hard. Then worked a little harder.

Last year — as a sophomore — John moved into the starting line-up and he showed flashes. But his jumper still was fickle and the team never found its stride, stumbling on a four-game losing streak to end the season a disappointing 16-10.

This year, John Noonan has emerged. And it couldn't happen to a nicer guy. He is playing clutch basketball, shooting the ball like a seasoned veteran and even leads the team in steals. And he makes his free throws.

(Note to John Calipari at Memphis — There will be games that come down to making free throws and it will be your undoing. For the love of God, practice free throws, mister.)

And John Noonan is funny. Which goes a long way in the course of a grueling hoops and books season.

In the final three-game run to history, Ursinus battled the following:

— prior to an 88-62 road win against Dickinson, Nick Shattuck and John were flattened by the flu. John dragged himself out on the court and laid 22 points on them, going 8 for 11 from the field.

— against Haverford, a team Ursinus beat by 30 earlier in the year, John gets whistled for a phantom foul with .08 seconds remaining and the score tied. The player from Haverford College spares John years of therapy and possible mental illness by missing the free throw. Ursinus holds on in OT 82-75.

— In the final regular season game at Muhlenberg, Ursinus survives an excruciating parade to the foul line by Muhlenberg in the last two minutes and a desperate three-point heave to stay undefeated.

The Ursinus Bears were perfect. John Noonan broke out — averaging nearly 15 points a game and even throwing down his first career dunk.

The Ursinus Bears host the Centennial Conference tournament this weekend. They are ranked 17th in the country and #1 in the Middle Atlantic Region. They are on their way to the NCAA tournament.

So, when you're filling out your pools for March Madness and watching games and shouting yourself hoarse, remember D-III — the teams that play out of view, that go to class, that play for the love of the game.

And remember that nice guys do finish first.

Just ask John Noonan — 2008 1st-Team All-Conference

NO DICE: EVERYDAY SALVATION

2008-03-14T19:55:00.000-07:00

There is nothing like great theater.

And there is really nothing like great theater that hits you when you least expect it. That presents itself in such a unique and committed way that it makes you want to jump up onstage and share the joy.

And when you factor in that the great theater in question — No Dice from the New York-based Nature Theater of Oklahoma — is a four-hour experimental theater extravaganza — the enormity of the thrill becomes clear.

In the friendly confines of the Wexner Center for the Arts in Columbus, OH, the astounding No Dice ensemble takes stylized acting and wildly energetic choreography to a place of high art.

The dialogue was crafted from countless hours of taped phone conversations between company members and their friends and family. The characters are foreigners — until they discard their accents and then their costumes and we realize what we suspected all along:

They aren't foreigners — they are us. And they are making a Herculean effort — using everyday conversations — to make sense of their lives and the world they share. Their interactions are by turns melodramatic, vaudevillian, touching and consistently hilarious.

Topics of dissection — um, discussion — include office work, Russian TV, drinking, dieting, novel punishments for scofflaw actors, Mel Gibson's Hamlet and dinner theater. All explored with non sequiturs, fits and starts and magnificently commited acting.

Then there's the dancing — which is as joyously uproarious as any I've ever witnessed on stage. (I admit, I do not possess a comprehensive mental library of dance numbers on stage but take my word for it.)

The theatrical experience of No Dice ultimately defies any written description. Like any great live experience — it needs to be seen, felt and heard.

However, I would be remiss if I didn't mention the truly inspirational commitment by the actors — especially the astounding trio of Zachary Oberzan, Anne Gridley and Robert M. Johanson.

I would also be remiss if I didn't mention that my lovely, insightful and persistent wife, Lisa, was the driving force to see this show. See, I've been in and seen enough wacky-kooky-hey-look-at-us we're-super-different! experimental theater that I was leery of a four-hour sojourn — possibly into the heart of nutville.

No Dice is a show that restores faith in the power of live theater.

It is an example of what live theater should be.

I wanted to be up there with them.

PATTON, HE AIN'T

2008-03-14T19:54:00.001-07:00

I've been a Bobby Knight apologist for years. Yes, it's been with declining conviction recently but nevertheless, there it is.

My brother Trip thought Knight was a dick.

I loved The General's teams when I was growing up — especially the 32-0 '76 team that sealed the deal in Philly. I dreamed of playing for Knight. His teams played tough, hard-ass basketball. They were unselfish and disciplined. They overcame physical limitations. They played hoops the right way. They played hoops that let you dream.

I thought it would be the ultimate challenge — to play under that kind of pressure, to thrive in that demanding cauldron. Even if I was too short, too slow and too earthbound.

Trip reiterated his sentiment that Bobby Knight was, is, and shall be ... a dick.

Even when everyone around me labeled him a bully, an ogre, a jerk off, a dick — I was fascinated by Bobby Knight. Did it really make you a better person to survive four years under him? Could someone be that angry, stubborn nasty and intimidating AND be a fiercely loyal, brilliantly innovative, tough-loving father-figure genius coach?

Maybe, Trip said, but not Knight — because Knight is a dick.

I was mesmerized by Knight's contradictions. I read John Feinstein's amazing book A Season on the Brink and came away wanting to meet Knight and find out what the Sweet Jesus made him tick.

You'll meet a dick, Trip said.

Well, I was too slow, too small and too earthbound a hoopster to ever come near experiencing Knight's particular brand of coaching. And the closer Knight came to Crazy Old Guy status — I mean, his eyebrows have their own zoning laws — the less I was able to rationalize my fascination.

But, even as his behavior became wackier and downright reprehensible, there was STILL a kernel of absorption in this Shakespearean decline. Sure, his teams tanked in the tournament and he was beginning to look more and more like a dinosaur. Yes, he railed like Lear and picked on little guys like Jeremy Schaap, who had the unmitigated gall to not pucker up and kiss his ass.

But he was Knight — maybe the greatest college coach of all time. And he had his principles — twisted as they might get by his temper and pig-headedness. His programs were clean. He cared about the kids. The kids got their diplomas. He was there.

Knight was there — through shitstorms and tornados, through outrage and witchhunts, through his own buffoonery and the exploitation of the media.

Knight hung in. Because it was for the kids. That's what college coaching is, after all. It's for the kids. Isn't that what every coach says?

Isn't that why coaches — in particular Bobby Knight — demand unquestioned loyalty, total obedience and maximum effort?

Because it's ultimately about character. Principles. Ideals. The kids. Jesus Christ, it's about the kids after all!!!!

Except when the coach is a dick.

Bobby Knight quit. He didn't retire. He'll coach again, the pussy. He had a painfully mediocre team at a school that — no matter how you slice it — was, is and always will be an also-ran. And he bailed. He took his red sweater and went home. He couldn't even be bothered to consider the four seniors on his team.

He tortured poor Martin Zeno for four years and then gives him the high hat with a month left. In fact, playing for Bobby Knight has probably 86'ed Zeno's NBA prospects.

And what thanks does Martin Zeno get?

The thanks of a dick.

Bobby Knight can tell everyone that he left to help his son Pat — who took over for Dad as coach at Texas Tech. But Pat was already promised the job whenever Knight was through. Why quit in the middle of the season? Why quit on the team that you browbeat about loyalty and toughness?

Bobby Knight told Jay Bilas of ESPN that he was "tired." And that it had been a "tough season." Okay, Bobby Knight is 67 — that's old but it's not even close to I'm-absolved-of-all-responsibility-for-my-actions old.

Worst of all, Knight told Bilas — "I'm just a basketball coach. I didn't work on curing heart disease or work on a cure for cancer or lead a division into a military endeavor that was a tremendous benefit to the United States. I've been a basketball coach.''

That quote was the killer — because Knight knows it's a lie and built his career on just the opposite.

And Bilas, who simply knows better, let it slide. He didn't have the courage to risk Knight's petulant wrath.

Here's the truth ...

College basketball is not insignificant. Yes, it has ruined some young men and probably hundreds of coaches' marriages. But college basketball has saved countless young men and women and thrilled millions and made millions and is a cultural institution. And I'd like to know this:

If you're just a basketball coach, Mr. Knight, — Why do you lose your shit every game. Why don't you sit on the bench, shut up and read the paper? Why do you write books about the lessons learned? Why do you take young men under your wing? Why does Duke coach Mike Krzyzewski call you the most influential person in his life other than his father?

Because, you hypocritical jackass, you know and I know that you (and every other coach worth their salt) is way, way more than a coach.

I can tell you, unequivocally, that when you sweat and bleed for a coach for three and a half years, you are in it together — to the end. That's just the way it is. That man or woman becomes more than a coach. That person becomes like another parent.

And no amount of wizened verbiage, crocodile tears and rationalization will change the fact that the Texas Tech players will feel that they let Knight down, that they drove him from the arena. That he quit because they weren't good enough.

Is there a worse act to commit in the locker room?

Why would Knight do that to those kids? And then, as a final shiv, why in the name of John Wooden would he leave the door open to the possibility of coaching again somewhere else? I mean, it was so easy to avoid. Just finish the season like a man. Why would The General make such a weak-tit choice!?

Because, in the end, the winningest coach in College basketball history, the towering innovator, the General, the mentor who has shaped countless lives, the man, the myth, the legend ...

... is a dick.

Trip was right.

And that might be the worst part of all this.

Moral Octuple Standard

2008-03-14T19:53:00.001-07:00

No one has done what Jim Brown has done.

Hall-of-Fame NFL legend. Civil-rights activist. Racial barrier smasher. Movie star.

The racial obstacles he had to overcome are unimaginable for athletes today. His life 's accomplishments are a wellspring of inspiration.

The guy has gone into the scariest neighborhoods in America and rescued African-American kids from gangs.

There is greatness about him.

I even cried when he died in The Dirty Dozen.

But it's time for him to shut up.

At least when it comes to dictating the moral duties of star athletes.

Specifically, Tiger Woods.

Here's the thing, Mr. Brown —

Tiger Woods is not you.

He's not as angry as you are.

He's not as prone to violence as you are.

He's never had trouble acknowledging his offspring.

As far as we know, Tiger has never threatened to snap his wife's neck.

We're pretty sure Tiger hasn't smashed the windshield of his wife's car — with her in it.

We're almost positive that Tiger didn't jump into the spotlight as Maurice Clarett's advisor and then disappear once the kid really could've used some help.

Of course Tiger Woods isn't perfect. Just like you, Jim, are not perfect.

Tiger seems to be a world-class grudge-holder (Is he part Irish!?!?), a bit of a control nut and he is way too successful for anyone to truly like. But all he has done is revolutionize his sport and handle the daily crushing pressure and expectations with (mostly) grace and a prickly sense of humor.

So Kelly Tighlman — someone none of us had ever known existed prior to this — said something idiotic, insensitive and reprehensible: that young players on the PGA Tour would "have to lynch him (Tiger Woods) in a back alley" to keep him from winning.

She's a moron. We all understand that. Most of all, Tiger Woods.

Tiger Woods said that it was not the brightest thing Tighlman ever said but he considered it a "non-issue", that he and Tighlman are friends and that was that.

That pissed Jim Brown off.

Evidently, Tiger is not allowed to be mildly offended.

Evidently because Tiger isn't an opportunistic, hypocritical Jacksonian, Sharptonian flame-fanner, Jim Brown is heartily offended.

Well, I'm wildly offended that Jim Brown is heartily offended that Tiger Woods isn't more offended.

See, nobody's perfect.

The Midas Touch ...

2008-03-14T19:51:00.000-07:00

... is exactly what Tony Resch possesses.

So it is high time that the global BrothersMcC readership gets a load of one of the true good guys.

Tony Resch (AKA H-Squared for reasons that are none of your business) will be inducted into the National Lacrosse League Hall of Fame in February.

Why, you ask?

Oh, just your run-of-the-mill phenomenal success and leadership achieved with uninterrupted humility and a wickedly sly sense of humor.

Formerly known as the Major Indoor Lacrosse League (MILL), the NLL has been in existence since 1986. Tony Resch played for the Philadelphia Wings from 1988 to 1993. A ferocious defender, he was the team captain for three of those years. The Wings won back-to-back championships in 1989 and 1990 and Tony was an All-Star in 1991.

In 1994 he became the Wings head coach. In 8 seasons, Tony won four championships and took the Wings to the title game five times.

That is quite a run. And done with dignity all the way.

Anyone who has sat at a Little League or a high school basketball game with assorted coaches and parents popping aortas and throwing Knight-ish temper tantrums knows the truth:

It's rare that a genuinely nice guy kicks the crap out of the competition year in and year out.

And it didn't start with the NLL.

Oh no, sir.

Tony graduated from Yale where he was a two-time All-American and a three-time All-Ivy Leaguer. And he played football as well. Plus he met his future wife there — the lovely, intelligent hoop-playing Irish girl Mary Gorman.

Talk about outkicking your coverage. Believe me when I tell ya, Tony went Ray Guy on that one.

His athletic exploits become even more impressive when you consider that during his junior year — smack in the middle of lax season — he had to share a dorm for six weeks with a wayward, alcohol-and-coed-crazed, broke, journalism-school intern malcontent who had a chip on his shoulder and no sense of boundaries.

Namely, me.

In spite of that, I've been lucky enough to count Tony as a friend ever since (personally, I think it was the Honeymooners marathon that cinched it) and I can think of no better subject than the ultimate stand-up guy getting his due.

Tony is currently the athletic director at LaSalle College High School in suburban Philly. He also is an assistant coach on the school's lax team. The team's leading scorer is some kid named Patrick Resch.

As if there were any doubt.

Congrats, H-Squared.

Psyched at you.

Redemption From Beyond The Arc

2008-03-14T19:49:00.001-07:00

Until three hours ago, I had never heard of Kyle McAlarney. Now I might be his #1 fan.
And this is why college hoops is magic — even in the first week of January.

McAlarney is a 6-1 guard for Notre Dame who got booted from school last year after a misdemeanor marijuana possession charge. At the time of the arrest he was the Fighting Irish's starting point guard.

McAlarney went back to Staten Island (where he holds the all-time high school scoring record) and took classes, worked out and paid the price for his mistake.

(While I have a working knowledge of many illicit substances from my college days, weed was not high on the list. However, my junior year I did smoke dope once before a practice with two of my more regularly stoned teammates. I shot the ball so well that our coach jokingly asked if I was on anything. I said yes and we all had a big laugh.
Not really — I was so freaked out and paranoid I nearly threw up.)

McAlarney and Notre Dame took on UConn tonight in South Bend. It was a raucous, fierce, physical and frantic affair and McAlarney was the best player on the court. He went for 32 points, hit every big shot for the Irish and even stuck his nose in on defense.

It would not be a stretch to say that McAlarney was the least gifted athlete on the floor (a position with which I have deep, intimate experience.) UConn's roster is filled with tough, rangy, quick, wildly athletic youngsters and McAlarney put on a clinic.

He rained three's and resurrected the seemingly lost art of the jump stop for feathery mid-range jumpers instead of plowing into people willy-nilly, pell-mell, helter-skelter. And when the Irish squandered all of their 21-point lead to fall behind, McAlarney rescued them with a clutch three. Notre Dame won 73-67.

He played the way most of us play the game — or played. Which is to say — below the rim. It was the game you always dream of playing — national television, flawless at both ends, putting your taller, more chiseled, faster teammates on your back and carrying them to victory in front of a gonzo crowd that includes your gear-wearing mom.

A year ago, he was disgraced. Tonight he was the best player in the country.

Hoop dreams, indeed.

JUST IN TIME FOR CHRISTMAS ...

2008-03-14T19:48:00.001-07:00

... comes a behind-the-scenes look at a heartwarming tale for the whole family — or a creepy psycho thriller. I can't remember ...

SAND AND SORROW: A CHANCE TO GET IT RIGHT

2008-03-14T19:45:00.001-07:00

Imagine the gods of history looking down on us all after our failures at protecting millions of innocent human lives from their own governments — and imagine them saying to us,

"We'll give you another chance. But this time, so as to be sure you get it right ... we'll do it in slow motion.

And we'll call it Darfur."

— from Sand and Sorrow

BrothersMcC has asked you to buy a book (Not On Our Watch) in the battle against genocide and to go see a movie (Darfur Now!) in the battle against genocide.

We are asking you now to stay home and watch TV in the battle against genocide.

Sand and Sorrow airs on HBO tomorrow night — Thursday, December 6th — at 8pm. The film was made by Peabody-award-winner Paul Freedman. George Clooney narrates and is the executive producer.

Sand and Sorrow follows our good friend human rights activist John Prendergast, fellow activist Samantha Power and New York Times columnist Nick Kristof on a first-hand journey from refugee camps to war-torn villages and finally to the halls of the U.S. Senate — where, well, you can only imagine what they find there.

(And if you're saying, "Sweet, I don't have HBO" then I'm happy to let you know that Sand and Sorrow will be streaming on hbo.com the entire weekend.)

I asked J.P. why we all should turn our backs on Survivor, Ugly Betty and Smallville tomorrow night:

"Genocide is a unique crime against humanity. It means people are targeted for their identity, for who they are. For the first time in history, a citizens' movement is growing against a genocide while it is still happening. You have a chance to be part of that movement. Watching the film can educate to empower."

And there you have it.

And I believe that making that effort is not an act of generosity. Or of self-sacrifice. It is an act of self-improvement. It is — in the end — a selfish act. As it should be.

I'll venture even further — that there really is no such thing as altruism. Doing what you think is right — or doing something because you can't not do it — is not unselfish. Nor is there any reason that it should be.

We do these things because they make us feel better about ourselves. They make us feel stronger. They make us feel good.

So let's be appallingly selfish and self -centered.

We just might get it right.

THE ONLY GOOD THING ABOUT THE WRITERS' STRIKE ...

2008-03-14T19:44:00.001-07:00

... is that you have the chance to catch up with a great TV show.

The Friday Night Lights party is one I am just now joining. A month ago, I hadn't seen a single moment of this compelling, emotionally real, impeccably acted series — now in its second season.

Evidently, I'm not alone in my tardiness.

Friday Night Lights has struggled in the ratings thus far but NBC has stuck with it. Take advantage of this rare wise network decision.

We finally tuned in to the show on a recent Friday night mostly because I was curious about Connie Britton, with whom I'd been in class. You'll remember her from The Brothers McMullen, Spin City and from playing the same role in the film version of Friday Night Lights.

And she was excellent. As she always is.

But so was the rest of the cast. I mean, every single actor was on the money. And the writing was good. The episode was so good — it was jarring.

So we watched it the next week — and it held up. And the week after.

Damn, man. We needed to get the whole story. So we rented Season 1.

The pilot of Friday Night Lights is as good as it gets on network television. It was art. It really was.

And the next few episodes (we've seen 4 so far from Season 1) were nearly it's equal.

And the big, honking revelation is Kyle Chandler. If ever there was an example of the right guy for the right part, this is it. As Eric Davis, the complicated, tightly wound head coach of the Dillon Panthers, Chandler is great.

He's never been great before — he's worked alot — but never like this.

And the younger actors — I mean, Holy Casting Director! (Linda Lowy , by the way) — they are superb. Except one — you tell me who it is. (Now you have to watch it.)

I've only seen 7 episodes of this show but I can confidently say — its not a football series. It is about people and the only other show that ever treated high school students with this much respect and insight was My So-Called Life.

The heartthrob is Taylor Kitsch — and he is as soulful and talented as he is good-looking.
The flat-out babe is Adrianne Palicki — and she can act.
The scene-stealer is Jesse Plemons — and he commits grand larceny at every opportunity.

Do yourself a favor and get up to speed with Friday Night Lights.

It's better than the movie.
It's better than the 789 CSI's
It's better than every sitcom.
And, believe it or not, it's better than October Road and Grey's Anatomy (the two worst shows on TV, by the way — in case you were wondering what the two most unwatchable hours of pure torture were — and I know you were)

HAPPY THANKSGIVING: OUTRAGE TAKES A HOLIDAY

2008-03-14T19:42:00.000-07:00

By now, I think its apparent that this blog faithfully adheres to it's Celtic DNA. We seem to have two basic modes of expression — Outrage and Sentimentality.

As one given more to Outrage, I figured I'd give the tired old bastard the holiday weekend off. Actually, Outrage can give thanks to my wife Lisa — and Hootie and the Blowfish.

Lisa and I had the honor of hosting Thanksgiving for the first time. The fact that it was a resounding success is due largely (okay, entirely) to Lisa's tireless effort and determination. Over the past two weeks, it was often difficult to determine whether we were making preparations for 22 dinner guests or for the next space shuttle launch.

All of Lisa's hard work and attention to detail paid off in spectacular fashion — and she was even gracious enough to share the credit.

Sure, I made a few runs to the grocery store, cleaned out a cooler and peeled a few potatoes. But I was a willing bystander — ready for the planning and the gorging to be done.

It was, for all intents and purposes, Lisa's boulder to roll up the mountain. Trying to find room for 22 of her relatives and address their individual dietary quirks, she engaged in mental gymnastics that would have impressed Plato, Newton and Vizzini. Not to mention Olga Korbut.

So what in the Sam Hill does this have to do with Hootie?

Well, for reasons that are none of your business, I was tasked with cleaning the oven the old-fashioned way. I was feeling none too thankful, none too generous and the likelihood that Outrage would be pressed into service after all was growing.

I put the iPod on "shuffle" and commenced scouring and scrubbing:

Screaming at the Wailing Wall — Flogging Molly
Go All the Way — The Raspberries
If I Should Fall From Grace With God — The Pogues
8 More Days Till The Fourth of July — Ike Reilly Assassination
Oceans — The Format

I was feeling slightly better, a bit more thankful.

I'm Goin' Home — Hootie & The Blowfish

(ed. Yes, I have the entire Cracked Rear View on my iPod. And proudly. In fact, I once got into it — on a music nerd message board — with Peter Blackstock about, ironically, his outrage over the success of Hootie and Darius Rucker's supposedly substance-free lyrics. When I pointed out that I'm Goin' Home was a moving and deeply personal tribute to Rucker's late mother, it marked my one and only victory in a music argument.)

I'm Goin' Home changed the tenor of my day.

Because that song is about me ... and it is about my family.

While I continue to mourn the loss of my mother — and the things we don't get to share — hearing that particular song never fails to shake me out of whatever self-centered, self-indulgent jackassery I've allowed to take over.

Then Lisa walked in the kitchen. Then Eirann walked in behind her. And, although the rest of clan McClatchy was strewn up and down the eastern seaboard, I had 'em all there for 4 minutes and 11 seconds.

I was surrounded by my family. And for that, I was thankful.

Have a nice vacation, Outrage.
Sentimentality, fasten your seat belt.

Thanks, Lisa.
Thanks, Eirann.
And thank you, Hootie.

DINNER AND A NEW KIND OF ACTION MOVIE

2008-03-14T19:41:00.001-07:00

I recently had the good fortune to share a meal and hang out with John Prendergast (above.)

J.P. (I call him that because those are his initials — and we played hoop together in high school) is a human rights activist and the best-selling author of Not On Our Watch — which he co-wrote with Don Cheadle.

After years toiling as what he calls a "policy wonk" in Washington, D.C., J.P. changed his focus to activism and, in the process, helped jump start the global attention now focused on the genocide being perpetrated in Darfur.

In his role as activist, he has tirelessly crisscrossed the globe speaking to anyone who will listen (and not a few who didn’t want to) in the fight to end the horrific suffering of the people of Darfur. Along the way, J.P. has also been able to enlist many and various celebrities and big shots in this battle.

Although J.P. and I had not laid eyes on one another in over 25 years we were lucky enough to fall right back into an easy rapport. It was immediately apparent why he has been able to accomplish so much. His is an infectious and energizing presence. He has limitless passion — for his work, for sports, for his family — and he’s a very good storyteller. Plus he’s pretty funny.

All in all — a perfect dinner companion.

For my part — I was able to keep the bar staff busy.

More than anything, what struck me about J.P. was the urgency of his behavior.

Whether he was talking about the unspeakable tragedies he has witnessed, eating a roll or listening to one of my wild embellishments of past athletic exploits — there was motion, intensity, a kind of "more to be done" vibration pulsing across the table.

And the source of that is clear — for J.P., each moment that escapes, that is not fully utilized, translates into more innocent deaths, more devastating violence and more grinding despair.

J.P. has reached a place of influence — one that allows him (and those who work with him) to impact events in the worst place on earth. It’s exhilarating, fleetingly satisfying, maddening and sleepless.

There is always more to do. There are always faces that haunt.

The battle rages on. Many have joined the fight. Many more are needed.

What can one person do?

On November 2nd — the documentary Darfur Now! opened in New York and Los Angeles. If you live there, go see it. Over the next two weeks, it will open in cities across the country. If it opens in your city, go see it.

I know that most of us go to the movies to escape, to laugh, to watch stuff blow up and forget about how tough life is. But — trust me — Saw IV and The Game Plan aren't going anywhere.

On the other hand — how often can you actually help stem the tide of innocent blood and feel the power of having made a palpable difference — by going to a movie theater.

Genocide is happening right now. This very instant.

Now you know what one person can do.

This being a blog with an inescapable Irish shadow, I’ll hit you with a quote from an 1846 article in the Times of London discussing the plight of the starving Irish after a second potato crop failure:

“It is possible to have heard the tale of sorrow too often.”

And the Irish people died.

Is it really possible?

BULLY PULPIT

2008-03-14T19:39:00.000-07:00

On Monday I had occasion to drive from Columbus, OH to Pittsburgh, PA and back. A little over six hours in all. My iPod was on the fritz and the cd player betrayed me. I was stuck with the unthinkable, the unimaginable, the unbearable:

The radio.

The choices east of Columbus and southwest of Pittsburgh — an area herewith known as the "The Forbidden Zone" — boiled down to the following:

1. Six to eight versions of Glenn Beck — Beck and his phlegm-throated sidekick spent an inordinate amount of time making fun of the nameless "celebrities" being victimized by the horrendous wildfires in Southern California. Beck seemed to be immensely irked at the fact that celebrities have money and opinions.

Like he doesn't have an abundance of both.

Beck proceeded to fashion anemic, profoundly unfunny riffs on a central theme — People idiotic enough to live in nice houses in Southern California are getting exactly what they deserve. And if they happen to have made a couple of successful movies and aren't Bruce Willis, then they really, really deserve it.

I know it's easy to pick on Glenn Beck — seeing as how he's a loudmouthed halfwit and all — but in all fairness, he does do two things worthy of note:

He stands up for the rights of wounded veterans and he champions the cause of the criminally undermanned and largely ignored Border Patrol.

Now back to him being a dick — he rails against those who waste time with trivial things and who can't see what's really important. Then he spends an hour yucking it up about incinerated houses. Does everyone with a microphone have to be a hypocrite? Is it in their contract?

2. Six to eight versions of Rush Limbaugh — If I have to go into any further detail, then you're beyond reason and have already angrily scrolled to your Drudge Report bookmark for a dose of "truth."

3. ESPN Radio — OK, this was cool — some Mike Tirico and Kirk Herbstreit kibbitzing and talking football and getting the straight dope from Hall-of-Famer Steve Young. This lasted 8 minutes and I lost the station somewhere around New Concord — the birthplace of John Glenn!

4. Six to eight versions of Bill O'Reilly — O'Reilly is the biggest bully in a schoolyard of screechers, drug addicts, sexual harassers, intellectual cripples and profuse perspirers who never got enough love or chicks growing up ... and they find their revenge — one day at a time — on the radio, attacking anyone with the temerity to hold views that might even remotely conflict with their own.

Bill O'Reilly has one weapon in the arena of debate: volume.

He shouts and bullies so you can't hear that what he's actually saying is moronic. I'm no tough guy but I'm pretty sure that, given the chance, I could beat the shit out of Bill O'Reilly ...
and there would be much rejoicing.

5. OLDIES!!!! — I never thought I'd weep for joy to hear Eydie Gorme and Steve Lawrence warble "Tonight I'll Say A Prayer For You My Love."

6. Evangelical radio — I could practically see the comb-over, the sweaty forehead, the swooning rubes and the hidden mistress waiting to place the call to TMZ the second the silver-tongued charlatan slipped into his Little Bo Peep outfit at the Motel 6 later that night.

7. One version (and that was plenty) of Dennis Miller — I hate to revisit the subject of Miller's stunning decline but, Holy Tin Ear For Comedy! In the 6.7 seconds before I could lunge at the dial, Miller was able to — irony-free — let his listeners know that he doesn't like Islamic fundamentalists because he objects to the way they treated Cat Stevens.

For all their bluster and buffoonery (and the satirical fodder they provide) — Beck, Limbaugh, O'Reilly and Miller are deeply troubling. They have the bully pulpit. They dominate the airwaves so completely. People listen to them as if they are speaking some kind of revelatory truth. How exactly did this happen?

Again, I appeal to you — set me straight. What am I missing? Is Rush Limbaugh really the voice of America? Is Glenn Beck truly our national conscience? Is Bill O'Reilly our intellectual touchstone? Is Dennis Miller really the new Eric Sevareid?

Here endeth my report on the insidious liberal media conspiracy.

BEST WESTERN

2008-03-14T19:37:00.001-07:00

Remakes — as a general rule — usually result in angry movie-goers. Psycho, anyone? Diabolique? Planet of the Apes?

And westerns have been declared dead more times than Neidermeyer.

So what to make of 3:10 to Yuma — a remake of an obscure western? Purists may howl about that "obscure" claim but, frankly, who cares about howling purists?

In any event, I never saw the 1957 original and I'm glad I didn't. I went in fresh.

Cutting to the chase, 3:10 to Yuma is the best western I've ever seen. Yes, it's better than Unforgiven if only because my wife didn't fall asleep this time.

This is one great movie. Director James Mangold — who wonderfully mined similar territory in Copland and directed Reese Witherspoon to a statuette in Walk The Line — delivers an amazing experience. It's rare when you truly don't know what is going to happen next — and at the same time desperately care what's going to happen.

Mangold shares the credit for that with a great script (adapted from Elmore Leonard's short story) by three credited writers — which also usually spells trouble — but not here.

The script is a marvel of terse philosophical musings and classic western one-liners that sum up more than eighty paragraphs of Tarantino hyper-babble ever could.

The actors are simply perfect. Christian Bale and Russell Crowe work wonders together. Bale plays Dan Evans, a down-on-his-luck rancher and Civil War veteran (a visceral parallel to today's scrap-heaped veterans), who takes on the near-impossible task of getting the legendary outlaw Ben Wade (Crowe — having what looks like the time of his life) on the titular train to prison.

Christian Bale has what most actors only play at — complexity and emotional depth. You just believe every single thing this dude does and says. Bale finds every ounce of pain, regret and anger in Evans and breaks your heart.

Crowe is a movie star. He is also a juggernaut talent. He puts these two things together and creates possibly the most charismatic villain in western history.

The revelation — and there is always a revelation in a great movie, isn't there? — is Ben Foster as Charlie Prince, Wade's unhinged hair-trigger right-hand man. He is unrecognizable from his Six Feet Under days and nearly steals the movie from the two stars.

Westerns have always been good at supplying great supporting roles to great character actors. "3:10 to Yuma" delivers — Foster, Peter Fonda, Alan Tudyk and Dallas Roberts all hit home runs.

And remember this name — Logan Lerman. He is 15. He plays Dan Evans' son Will who worships Ben Wade. He is a star. You heard it here.

The violence is fast and furious in this film — but not one shell is fired gratuitously. It all has a purpose. It's not flashy ... it's violence.

Above all — everyone in "3:10 to Yuma" finds the truth. It's a morality tale with no easy answers and alot of hard questions.

Who knew a western could be so relevant in 2007?

DENNIS MILLER : COMEDY’S JACKSON BROWNE

2008-03-14T19:36:00.001-07:00

Dennis Miller has moments of brilliance. He has made me laugh until I cried. He has made me nasal-spank my beer with his uniquely acerbic and ultra-hyphenated, multi-tiered references and rants. His outrage made for sporadically great, often hilarious social and political commentary. Dennis Miller could be downright inspiring.

Because of that, it was easy to overlook his occasional pretension. His apparent bottomless need to appear hip and ingratiate himself with other celebrities. His interview skills — rivaled only by those of Chevy Chase. And the fact that he always seemed spectacularly ill-at-ease on-camera and on-stage. No problemo.

Because he was funny.

Now he’s on radio — ostensibly the perfect medium for his jittery, self-conscious mode of expression.

On Monday, I caught his radio act for the first time. I listened for fifteen minutes. With that comprehensive data, I am ready to render a verdict:

Dennis Miller has lost his funny.

Now, much has been made of his “conversion” after 9/11. His point of view has become increasingly conservative. He has been co-opted by the right. He has been pilloried by the left.

Frankly, I could care less about his political persuasion. I’m a left-leaning commie pinko (so I’m told) but I love the writing of P.J. O’Rourke. For one reason — he is funny. He may be dead wrong about a lot of things but he kills me.

For those fifteen minutes, Dennis Miller was a strident, groping mess. He was lathered up about how Democratic leaders keep harping on the absence of WMD and that they should just give it up after 5 years already. “Can we just move on, please?” he wants to know. He then went on to make the case that, instead of vilifying the actions of the Bush administration and carping about a hopeless war, we should hail ourselves as feminists. That’s right — the latest and best reason that we are at war in Iraq is, according to Dennis Miller, because Iraqi men treat their women like shit.

Of course, if by being in Iraq, soldiers are able to improve the lot of abused women there, that is great. But to use that as the new, shiny reason that American men and women are turning the sand maroon with their blood ... it was disturbing to hear.

Besides, if that’s really the case, certain pockets of Philly better get ready for some serious daisy-cutters and bunker-busters. You know who you are, fuckers.

It was a sad moment. It felt like a death blow to a rare comic talent. Miller was borderline hysterical. He's made the fatal mistake of becoming an ideologue. He’s now blinded by the light of righteousness. He is now comedy’s version of Jackson Browne circa Lives in the Balance and World in Motion. In a word — an unbearable blowhard.

Fine … three words.

Now — Jackson Browne has made some of my all-time favorite music. His first 5 records are classics. However in the 1980’s he began churning out ideological song after strident message tune after unwieldy “important” ditty. Only they weren’t songs at all, they were lectures. As he found ideology, he lost me.

Jackson Browne has wended his way back — realizing somewhat that no one interested in buying records wants to be barked at. Especially by a wife-beating folk singer.

One can only hope that Dennis Miller gives up the dogma and remembers what made him great — the ability to see reality as more than black and white … and then give it a pie in the face.

THE "OTHER" REGGIE

2008-03-14T19:34:00.001-07:00

(Ed. A while back we blogged in honor of Howard Porter, the former Villanova basketball star who was found beaten to death in Minneapolis. We lauded his hoop greatness and his battle back from the abyss of drug addiction.
He was one of my first sports idols. And I called him a hero for turning his life around and helping others.
He did do all that.
But Porter was unable to conquer his demons entirely. According to murder charges filed Tuesday, Porter was trying to trade money and crack cocaine for sex with a hooker when he was beaten to death.
What is more tragic than tragedy? Whatever that word is, it fits here.
The irony is that I had just finished writing about another long-ago sports hero. Not to spoil it — but — this one ends better.)

I watched the recent ESPN miniseries “The Bronx is Burning” — a relentlessly entertaining chronicle of the 1977 New York Yankees’ dysfunctional run to the World Series. The show centered on the triangle of Billy Martin (a Spock-eared and intense John Turturro), Reggie Jackson (the estimable Daniel Sunjata — who you can see weekly on friggin’ RESCUE ME, people!) and George Steinbrenner (a fun, if scenery-pulverizing, Oliver Platt.)

Reggie Jackson took center stage in the miniseries. He was the lightning rod. And he cemented his legend by hitting three home runs in Game Six to clinch the Series for the Yanks. In 1977, Reggie Jackson became a folk hero.

In one episode, amidst all the bluster and drama, was a fleeting glimpse of a forgotten star doing his own home run trot. It was just a second or two but it was unmistakable.

It was the “other” Reggie.

Reggie Smith was a member of the ’77 Dodger team that lost to the Yankees. He was also their best player. He may be the greatest player in major league history you’ve never heard of.

With career stats that surpass a number of Hall-of-Famers, he was a seven-time All-Star, a Gold Glover, and the most feared switch-hitter in the game. He also possessed the most lethal throwing arm of any outfielder during his career.

In that epic ’77 World Series, he also hit three home runs. Just not in one game. So Reggie Jackson got a candy bar named after him, a bust at Cooperstown and immortality. Reggie Smith got the undying adulation of a pasty-white Irish-Catholic coke-bottle-glasses complexion-challenged 14-year-old in Philly (Okay, I was a late bloomer.)

Reggie Smith was the epitome of cool — from the menacing, gum-chomping stare to the pre-Sheffield bat waggle to the rifle right arm he used to just erase guys at the plate. Reggie Smith did the impossible — he made playing right field cool.

For that alone, he deserves to be in Cooperstown.

In his career, Reggie Smith hit 314 home runs, was one clutch bastard and led the league in simmering competitive fire. He had run-ins with teammates, the media, management and fans. But all he did was win. In 16 years, his teams had winning records 13 times. He played in 4 World Series, getting a ring with the Dodgers in 1981. And he was a keeper of the long lost art of the helmet ‘fro.

I wanted to be Reggie Smith. In fact, there was a large chunk of time when I wished I was black. Everywhere I turned for inspiration back then, it seemed like an African-American was holding the torch. In ’77 — Reggie Smith’s best season — my favorite hoopster was Doctor J. My favorite musician was pre-nutjob Michael. My favorite football player was Walter Payton. I even went deep into The Autobiography of Malcolm X. I cried when Jim Brown died in The Dirty Dozen. And Billy Dee Willliams in Brian’s Song? I ran like him for years. Not Gayle Sayres. Billy Dee Williams. Might explain my less-than-stellar football career.

I thought being black must be the coolest because they were the best at everything — except, of course, golf and hockey. Black was beautiful. Sugar Ray Leonard. Lola Falana. Ben Vereen. Sidney Poitier. Even the sister on Good Times.

Black is still beautiful but Reggie Smith is one who endured for me.

I followed him even through his bizarre year in Japan, where he clashed with everyone and weathered racial attacks — both physical and verbal. Through it all, Reggie Smith never got his due, it seems. And that made his cool factor go even deeper.

When his major league career ended in 1982, Smith had more home runs than any other switch-hitter in history except one — some dude named Mantle.

Reggie Smith is a baseball lifer. And, by all accounts, a stand-up guy. He worked for the Dodgers after he retired. He was a hitting instructor, a first base coach, a front office jockey.
He coached the 2000 Olympic baseball team to it’s stunning upset of Cuba for the gold.
Billy Crystal hired him to get Barry Pepper to play like Roger Maris and Thomas Jane to swing like Mickey Mantle for the movie *61. His baseball instruction company, Reggie Smith Baseball Centers, is well-respected and successful.

Yet Reggie Smith still flies under the radar. He is still the “other” Reggie.

But not here.

Here and now — he is the “only” Reggie. One sports hero who never disappointed.

FUCK YOU, I'M IRISH!!

2008-03-14T19:32:00.000-07:00

The 20th annual Dublin (OH.) Irish Festival ended just a couple of hours ago. And of the many certainties to emerge from this latest gathering of my well-lubricated people, two stand out:

1. With apologies to The Hold Steady, Jesse Malin and anyone else currently plugging in and rocking hard, the best live band going right now is Flogging Molly. As Trip might say, "These guys believe." As Scott might say, "They were un-fucking-believable." What I say: To have been in that steamy, stinking, sweaty tent in Central Ohio when Dave King (above) and his cohorts ripped through their set of joyous Celtic powerhouse rock and roll is to have forgotten all the bullshit and regained your faith.

I've never seen the generational mix — and I mean, enthusiastic, fanatic and willing mix — that we saw tonight. Lacoste-wearing boomers were jabbing their fists in the air alongside redneck kilt-wearers who were next to pierced, mohawked teens who were pogoing in the personal space of , well, us. And we (the missus and I) were screaming at the top of our lungs.

In between long pulls of adult beverages. (Killian's for me and Coors Light for the wife — hey, that's all they had!!!!)

It was rock and roll. It was Irish. It was beautiful.

Frontman Dave King — a Dubliner of the Irish sort — led the band from searing punk-folk tales to soaring heartbroken ballads to all-out fiddle-fueled rave-ups. Christ! I can't sit still even now! Just writing about it!

Ok. There. I'm back.

Dave King is a true believer. He is a storyteller with a punk rock bent who never, ever forgot the old country. He is currently Ireland's most vital rock and roller and Flogging Molly is the band you need to see.

No one needs a set list but I will say that Flogging Molly paid angry, loving tribute to the great Tommy Makem, dedicating "What's Left of The Flag" (from Drunken Lullabies) to his memory.

Flogging Molly was turned down by every label in the universe. Nobody "got " them. Except their fans. Now they have three records out and a cult following and you'll never hear them on the radio.

Believe the non-hype.

See them. Hear them. Be a Rebel of the Sacred Heart.

2. The Mickey Finns are the next great Irish/NYC bar band and lead growler Ray Kelly is the heir apparent if the throne were shared by Shane MacGowan and Mike Ness.

I had never even heard of these guys before this weekend. In fact, I was a little skeptical of the name. Mickey Finns — it conjured up images of a bar filled with cheesy faux-Irish neon signs and that served green beer on March 17th.

Shows what I know.

Ray Kelly is relentless and intense and has a classic Irish rock and roll snarl. He led the Finns (a band culled from the original line-ups of The Prodigals and Raglan Road) through a tight, nasty set of Irish rockers. The fiddle player, Matt Mancuso, is a virtuoso. He's also an Italian dude from Brooklyn. See, we are a nation of immigrants. Even the Italians are down with paddy.

Here's the thing. The Prodigals played as well. And they are a very good band. And fun in concert. Gregory Grene, the lead singer, is as genial and energetic a performer as you're likely to come across. He is alot of fun.

Ray Kelly moves you.

And he provided the moment of the festival. Taking the mike — and singing a cappella with a barely concealed rage that seemed to shoulder the entire troubled history of his native Ireland — Kelly purged himself of "Sean South", an anthem about a fallen Irish republican made famous by the Wolf Tones. The performance gave me chills and nearly brought me to tears. I'll never forget it.

There were other great moments as well — not the least of which was the furious rendition of "Star of the County Down" by Homeland — a Dayton-area band. It was their tribute to Mr. Makem. Homeland is a solid, reliable band with a lead singer my wife kinda digs so we'll never be seeing them perform live again. They also have a fiddle player who is flat-out brilliant and looks like Oliver Reed circa Tommy with a perpetual hangover. Take a moment.

Finally, the wonder of Black 47. The ageless, nearly translucent and always ecstatic Larry Kirwan never fails to deliver the goods. And he unleashed two heated, politically pointed anti-war songs from their forthcoming record. The reception from the Columbus crowd was decidedly mixed. The reception from me was Fuckin' A, Wally. The songs were great and tragic — less funk and more punk. Which is how I like my Black 47.

If an Irish festival is coming near you — join Paddy Nation for the day.
If not — buy some Irish music, turn it up, tell the neighbors and drink a pint.
Hell, I'll kiss you.

FIVE YEARS LATE: THE MAGDALENE SISTERS

2008-03-14T19:30:00.001-07:00

It's never too late to discover a great movie. And a spectacular performance.

You'll find both in The Magdalene Sisters (2002).

This is one of those movies I had been intent on seeing but never quite able to negotiate it into the DVD player. Until last night.

Please don't wait as long as I did.

The Magdalene Sisters is a wrenching account — based on true stories — of life inside the barbaric Magdalene Laundries Of Ireland. Women were sent to these de facto prisons for crimes such as being raped, overtly liking boys and having a baby out of wedlock. The film explores the harrowing cruelty inside one such place — through the eyes of three inmates:

Margaret is the one who was raped. Bernadette liked flirting. Rose had a baby without being married.

Written and directed by the estimable Peter Mullan (a brilliant Scottish actor who's appeared in such films as Braveheart, My Name is Joe and Miss Julie), The Magdalene Sisters is not easy but it is riveting. On its surface, the movie is a bald indictment of the Catholic Church's treatment of women — the nuns who run the joint are either steadfastly cruel or bug-eye crazy. Some are both. The inmates are all innocent victims.

But there is more going on than a big fuck-you to the Pope and the Sisters of Mercy and all the freaky sex-starved priests out there.

(Ed. I had the Sisters of Mercy for eight years of grade-school and they weren't all that sadistic; though there was a preponderance of bad breath. Could the order not pony up for some Listerine? )

The lasting effects of sustained, indefinite abuse are explored with a gripping attention to detail and an unflinching eye.

The movie ultimately is not just an indictment of the Catholic Church — it is relevant in a searing, I-dare-you-to look-away fashion. You can't help but think about the Taliban, honor killing and ritual circumcision — especially when you realize that the last laundry in Ireland closed its doors in 1996.

Yes — 1996.

We like to believe that backward, primitive barbarism is the province of far-away, of those who are nothing like us. Clearly, it's closer to us than we think.

The Vatican denounced the movie when it was released. I couldn't possibly come up with a better reason to watch it.

The great performance?

In a film with not a false acting note, a woman named Eileen Walsh steals the show. She plays Crispina, a mentally handicapped woman interred so she won't be taken advantage of by predators. So naturally she ends up blowing the parish priest.

Walsh (she's the one on the right) is stunning. She is funny, heartbreaking and sometimes downright scary. The fact that her performance generated zero interest or attention is mind-boggling.

Or maybe its not.

This movie is a a test of wills. Let your will win — it'll be worth it.

KEVIN MCCLATCHY IS A MENSCH

2008-03-14T19:26:00.001-07:00

I'm a little late with this but, frankly, no one's paying me so I have no deadline.

I can say without reservation that Kevin McClatchy is one helluva good guy.

It was ironic that I was in western PA. when the news broke that Kevin was stepping down from his job with the Pittsburgh Pirates. He and I have been linked since 1996, the year the "other" Kevin engineered the purchase of the belly-up Pirates, keeping major-league baseball in Pittsburgh and becoming the youngest owner in the league.

And before we go any further — let me reiterate, re-emphasize, magnify, bellow and beat a dead horse:
Kevin McClatchy saved baseball in Pittsburgh. Any argument to the contrary is either the 15th Iron City talking or just plain old idiot spite. So when your grandkids are hootin' and hollerin' and living and dying with every pitch as the Pirates make their triumphant return to the playoffs — keep a kind thought for the guy who allowed it to happen.

(THIS MEANS YOU, FEENEY.)

Kevin contacted me in '96 and we struck up a friendship. Without turning this into a gossip column or the McClatchy social newsletter, I'll state that Kevin has been nothing less than generous with his time, effort, sense of humor and owner's seat at PNC Park.

In '96 I was making soap opera history on Another World (Skinniest Man Ever To Make The Cover of Soap Opera Digest) and Kevin was the youngest owner in the majors. I was getting requests for charitable donations — seeing as how I owned a baseball team and had an acting job. Kevin was getting the opportunity to make jokes about that.

When he and I finally met, I sat in his office overlooking PNC Park and we just shot the shit. He is the most ego-less, pretension-free rich guy I've ever come across. He may have made his share of mistakes as owner of the Pirates but it was refreshing as hell to sit with him at a "meaningless" late-season game and watch him live and die with every pitch.

And he did. He wanted so badly to bring winning back to the Pirates.

Yeah, he wanted to raise the price of tickets after losing 100 games one year but ...
Okay, I have no explanation for that.

But he did 10,000 great things for Pittsburgh as well — and the good dwarfed the bad.

Yes, in win and losses, Kevin's tenure as owner of the Pirates was less than great.

And, yes, when you get right down to it, it's all about wins and losses.

So remember this — Kevin McClatchy, rich guy from Sacramento who could have taken any number of easier roads, came to Pittsburgh, saved the goddamn team, built a killer park, took a complete beating from assorted hack writers and hysterical radio mutants, hung in there (he's an athlete, let's not forget) then told the truth to whoever would listen and did it with a healthy dose of sly wit.

Kevin McClatchy gave the yinzers their biggest win — Pittsburgh got to keep their team.

Furthermore, Kevin is the only owner of a professional franchise that I would like to have more than one beer with.

I have no higher praise for "the man."

Now, Kev, about that tee time at your club ...

"BECAUSE I THINK IT, IT IS RIGHT."

2008-03-14T19:24:00.001-07:00

A very good friend of mine who has given his entire adult life to government and military service — and who is the 2nd smartest person I’ve ever known — said this to me as George Bush prepared to take office in 2001:

“If Bush didn’t have Cheney, I’d be worried. But I’ve been around Cheney. I’ve worked with him. He is smart, tough, will do what needs to be done. The right way.”

At that time, this very good friend of mine was the smartest person I’d ever known. And what he said made me breathe a little easier. I relaxed about the prospect of an inarticulate addict taking the highest office.

(Yes, I meant to type “addict.” For me "addict" is synonymous with “drunk." As a born-again Christian, George W. Bush has simply traded one addiction for another, in my completely underqualified medical/spiritual assessment. This is not to say that all born-again Christians have traded one addiction for another … just all the ones I have come across. So for the sake of a classic Irish-Catholic snap judgment — yes, without a doubt, all born-again Christians are trading up in the addiction showroom. And furthermore — any ideologue, regardless of their spiritual affiliation, political stripe or acting technique, is a kook. So there. )

Anyway, this friend of mine assured me that all would be cool with Cheney lurking the halls of power.

It is a measure of the genius gap between Smartest People I’ve Ever Known #’s 1 & 2 and the rest of us that this friend has fallen only one spot after such a monumentally dickheaded assessment.

The last thing I’m going to do is catalogue all the deceit, treachery, fleecing, spilled blood, criminal acts, public profanity and fart jokes for which Bush and Cheney are responsible.

But I will mention two things:

1. My father-in-law — a respected psychologist — told me about a study done at Duke University. The study examined — if I got everything straight — presidential behavior from the Carter administration to the present in order to explore why presidents invariably become too big for their britches and do power-mad, idiotic things. In a nutshell, it’s the “Because I think it, it is right” syndrome. There are no rules in this rarified air of unchallenged opinions. These men actually begin to believe that they can —and should — act with impunity; that they know best and everyone else can just pucker up and smooch their imperial buttocks.

This is why Bush has gone off the rails and Cheney is growing horns and cloven hooves as we speak. They believe in their own infallibility. So did Clinton and Bush the Elder. Which brings me directly to —

2. Why in the name of Nixon Weinberger Rich Libby do we even have presidential pardons?
— I will be forever in the debt of whoever can educate me as to why we allow rich, privileged men to upend the judicial system in service of bailing out their criminal, scuzball friends and covering their own asses. Why do we do that? Why do we diminish ourselves in that way?

Thank you for your cooperation in this matter.

HUMAN RIGHTS HERCULES WITH A FUNKY JUMPER

2008-03-14T19:22:00.000-07:00

John Prendergast had the funkiest jumper I've ever seen. It would start somewhere down around his hip, roll up the side of his body and be slung whiplash-style somewhere in the direction of the basket.

All this occurred — in defiance of the laws of physics — with the timing and weird natural athleticism that was unique to J.P. For all the herky-jerky spin-move mania that was J.P.'s pigeon-toed game in high school, the kid could ball because he never stopped moving, never got tired and was fearless. And he believed.

These same attributes — plus a healthy dose of moral outrage and big-time smarts — have led J.P. to the summit of human rights activism.

He has spent the better part of the last quarter-century shining a spotlight on the most troubled parts of Africa — tirelessly raising the alarm for those who cannot raise it themselves. From the Ethopian famine to the killing fields of Northern Uganda, Somalia and, most recently, Darfur in northern Sudan — J.P. has borne witness, documented and shouted from rooftops about the deaths of hundreds of thousands of innocent victims.

J.P. has now written a book with Oscar-nominated actor and fellow activist Don Cheadle. It is called Not On Our Watch.

And I suggest that you read it.

Now I know what you are thinking — because I have had the exact same thoughts:

"Africa? What about all the problems we have right here in the U.S.?"

"Um ... we are at war ourselves."

"Genocide. I mean ... genocide! What could I possibly do that would change something so huge?"

"Africa — the place is hopeless."

We do have urgent crises here. We are at war. And "Genocide" is a problem so huge, so halfway-around-the-world and so nobody-I-know that it is difficult to get fired up.

I read Not On Our Watch and it was stunning. I felt proud to know J.P. and count him as a friend. Ultimately, though, I was moved not by John and Don's remarkable commitment, nor the inspiring efforts of students across the country or even the wrenching photos in the middle of the book — but by a single description in the book:

"Amina ... had fled her village during an attack. Her husband had been shot ... She had two of her children on her back and the other two in her arms as about twenty Janjaweed (the government-sponsored militia) chased her on camels. First they ripped her five-year-old, Adom, from her, and when she stopped running and begged for her child, they told her they would shoot her. So she continued running away from her village that was up in flames. The Janjaweed then tossed Adom into the fire. He was screaming and calling her name but she just kept running."

I have a five-year-old.
How can I do nothing?

Who benefits from my action? I do.
Who benefits from your action? You will.

FOR CHRIST'S SAKE, WATCH "RESCUE ME"

2008-03-14T19:21:00.001-07:00

The best show on television started it's fourth season last Wednesday and most of you weren't watching. What the hell?
I know. I know.
Denis Leary provides very little gray area. People seem to think he's either brilliant or a total assface. (For the record — I lean well to the former)
But, for the love of God, how can you keep yourself from at least trying a show that is harrowing, hilarious, heady and heartbreaking (sometimes all in the same scene.)
This is Denis Leary's high-water mark — or at least in a dead heat with No Cure For Cancer. As writer/actor of this highwire TV act (I'm going to break the record for descriptive H-words in a single blog) he delivers not only an emotional wallop but a tonic for the recent horrors visited on Irish-Americans who own television sets.
Who else was ready to call in air strikes after suffering through the likes of Madigan Men, Trinity and the goddamn Fighting Fitzgeralds?
Rescue Me has something for everybody.
Why, just in last week's episode alone — there was Tatum O'Neal passionately advocating for the marital importance of a porn stash. The woman's porn stash, no less. There were sexy doings in a Catholic church during Mass — and the participants were consenting adult parishioners. There was a spectacular explosion, firefighting heroics, pity sex, teen sex, gay marriage, substantial weight loss, true love, vomiting, domestic squabbling and at least eight genuine belly laughs.
Watch this show. You're worth it.

MR. PORTER

2008-03-14T19:18:00.000-07:00

I wanted to be Howard Porter. In fact, countless times in our backyard, I was Howard Porter. Howard Porter was my first basketball hero.

On May 19th, he was severely beaten and left for dead in an alley. A week later, he died. He was 58. Although I hadn’t thought of Porter for a solid 20 years, I was shocked. And I grieved. Howard Porter was there at the beginning of a lifelong love affair.

Basketball has been in my bloodstream as long as I can remember. I played in grade school, high school and college. I even hung on for years in rec leagues and pick-up games until I ran out of meniscuses, ankle ligaments and the desire to trash talk middle-aged civil servants. It bonded me to my brothers in a way nothing else has.

I haven’t played competitive basketball in five years. And not a day goes by that I don’t miss it. Basketball was my obsession. And college basketball has been — and remains — my favorite.

Luckily , I grew up in Philly — where the heart of college basketball is located. (It’s not even up for debate, so put a sock in it New York, Indiana and Tobacco Road.)

That heart beats loudest in the Big Five. For the uninitiated, the Big Five includes LaSalle, Penn, Temple, Villanova and St. Joe’s — as well as the most heated rivalry in college basketball — St. Joe’s-Villanova. (Again, don’t even try with Duke-North Carolina, people. St. Joe-‘Nova is about hate… Philly hate. It’s no contest.)

First my sister Pam, then Trip enrolled at St. Joe’s. By default, I became a rabid ‘Nova hater.

But when I was seven years old, all I knew was that I loved college basketball and Howard Porter took Villanova to the NCAA championship game against UCLA. ‘Nova lost 68-62 but Porter was named the most outstanding player of the tournament.

A guy who played basketball three parishes away was the best player in the country. Of course I idolized him. It was 1971. Howard Porter was king. Three-time All American. Sure-fire NBA prospect. Philadelphia folk hero. Then it all fell apart.

He’d dealt with an agent during that magical season, in violation of NCAA rules. Villanova’s runner-up finish was vacated and Porter never received the MOP trophy because that was 86’ed as well.

Villanova turned him out and Porter was never really the same. He went on to a disappointing NBA career, retiring quietly in 1978. He then promptly spiraled into drug addiction.

I don’t really remember the agent scandal of ‘71. I was seven. Howard Porter was larger than life. He was the coolest person in the world. Even as my duty as a ‘Nova hater became a blood oath, I loved Porter. I followed his NBA career religiously even when it slipped into irrelevance.

By 1985 — the year Villanova pulled the greatest upset in NCAA history by beating Georgetown for the title — Porter was a broke, forgotten coke-addled mess living with his mother. He was also completely out of my consciousness. And would be until two weeks ago.

Porter had pulled himself together, gotten straight and become a probation officer in Minnesota. He had become a pillar, a role model. He had faced down the worst in himself and came out the other end better for having gone through it. He may even have lost his life to one of the people he’d been trying to help. The police don’t know yet.

I knew none of this.

Villanova eventually welcomed him back. In 1997 — 26 years after ending the greatest career in school history — they retired his jersey.

A few years ago, Jay Wright, the Villanova coach, stopped practice one day when Porter was visiting. Wright pointed at Porter and told his players, “That right there is Howard Porter, the greatest Villanova basketball player of all time.”

The players all called him “Mr. Porter.”

Once again, he was a man among boys.

Once again, he is a hero.

BITTERSWEET "WAITRESS"

2008-03-14T19:15:00.001-07:00

Under normal circumstances, “Waitress” is the most enjoyable movie of the year. It heralds the arrival of an immensely talented writer/director who also has carved out a career as an actor.

Unfortunately, the circumstances surrounding “Waitress” are anything but normal. Adrienne Shelly, the writer/director/actor in question, was murdered in her New York apartment last November. “Waitress,” a smart, zesty and heartfelt comedy, is her final film — and a triumphant parting gift for us.

Jenna (Keri Russell) is a “pie genius” who works at Joe’s Pie Shop and slogs through an unhappy marriage. She concocts outrageously delicious pie recipes in her head — all mirroring her current state of mind. She dreams of leaving town and getting away from her overbearing, brutish husband Earl (a riveting, oddly touching Jeremy Sisto.) Much to her dismay, Jenna discovers she is pregnant. She commiserates to great comic effect with her two co-workers — Becky (Cheryl Hines) and Dawn (Shelly).

Thoroughly uninterested in being a mother, especially to Earl’s baby, Jenna grudgingly goes to her gynecologist, Dr.Pomatter (Nathan Fillion). Right from the get-go, sparks fly and the two embark on a torrid affair that whiplashes back and forth between unbridled passion and sudden attacks of conscience.

Jenna tries to hide the impending bundle of less-than-joy from Earl. She immerses herself in the pies and Dr. Pomatter. At work, she has to deal with a foul-tempered boss (Lew Temple) and Old Joe, the cranky owner of the restaurant (brilliantly played by Andy Griffith.)

Meanwhile, Becky is having an affair of her own, only she won’t say with whom. And Dawn, the resident wallflower, is on a romantic path with uber-nerd Ogie. I just have to say that Eddie Jemison, one of the legions of dependably good character actors that you’ve never heard of but instantly recognize, makes Ogie the most memorable comic suitor of recent vintage. Jemison is sweet, hysterical and weirdly familiar.

As Jenna gets closer and closer to giving birth, everything, as it must, comes to a head. That’s all you’ll get out of me, except to say that every moment — even the ones you think you see coming right down Broadway — pack a wallop, or at least a belly laugh.

Every step of the way, director/writer Shelly surprises us. And this quirky character study never pulls it’s quirk muscle. It all feels right and real. You care what happens … to everyone. The film hits the perfect balance of satire, off-kilter comedy and a genuine feel-good vibe. It earns our affection honestly by taking the Official Maudlin Chick-Flick Handbook and setting it on fire.

Shelly has too much respect and sincere affection for her characters to settle for standard-issue — everything comes with a piquant seasoning, a bite that cuts the sweet.

And the performances are spectacular. As the pie-baking, baby-fearing Jenna, Keri Russell once and for all shakes off any lingering “Felicity” memories (not to mention the mess that was “The Upside of Anger”) and emerges as a bona fide movie star. She carries the film — with a grace and emotional depth that I’ve seen in precious few young American actresses.

And can we just anoint Andy Griffith a national treasure and get on with it? He takes what could’ve been a walking cliché — the lonely curmudgeon — and breaks your heart.

I read somewhere that Hollywood is bemoaning the dearth of young leading men who can “do it all.” Well, I believe that Nathan Fillion has a beef. (As does a certain Irish-American blogger/actor who shall remain nameless.) He can do it all. He’s been a soap star (One Life to Live), an action hero (Firefly) and in “Waitress” he is funny, romantic and goddamn charming. And he better stay away from my wife.

Cheryl Hines is a riot as dye-job, chain-smoking Becky. And Shelly’s Dawn is a gem of comic cluelessness and aching sweetness.

Shelly has left us with a minor classic in “Waitress.” The stylized dialogue and cinematography, the small-town eccentricities, the sneaky humor — we’ve seen parts of it all before. Just not with the kind of guts, smarts and emotional heft of “Waitress.”

Watching such a satisfying film was bittersweet. The fact of it’s excellence only magnified what we’ve lost. I remember the first time I encountered Adrienne Shelly. My girlfriend (now wife) and I went to see Hal Hartley’s “The Unbelievable Truth” at the Angelika in New York. It was her first film role. She was the lead — and she was great. I couldn’t put my finger on why she was great. She just was.

I’m happy (and sad) to report that Adrienne Shelly finished the same way she started.

Go see “Waitress.” You’ll laugh. You’ll cry.

DUKE LACROSSE: STILL DE-PRESSED

2008-03-14T19:13:00.000-07:00

The good news is that the travesty dogging three former Duke lacrosse players is over, as the prosecution’s case contained more holes than Bonnie and Clyde’s last ride.

The bad news is that the other travesty in this whole cesspool of ambition and mob-mentality vengeance will not be rectified. Mike Pressler, Duke’s head lacrosse coach at the time and designated fall guy, got screwed, hung out to dry, left for dead and otherwise treated like shit.

When everything exploded in March of last year, the outrage was almost instantaneous … as was the assumption of guilt. The usual suspects lined up at the tabloid trough and gorged themselves. I remember wondering if someone was going to have to give Nancy Grace oxygen, she was so amped about the ratings, er … I mean … allegations.

The racial and class implications have been well-documented as has the anguish visited on the accused young men and their families. What has not been nearly as well-documented is the price paid by Pressler and his family.

In the wake of the scandal, he was forced to resign by Duke president Richard Brodhead. Threatening and profane signs appeared on the family’s front lawn. Hate emails, phone calls and verbal threats followed Pressler’s wife Sue and their two daughters Janet and Maggie.

Still they tried to ride out the storm. Pressler believed his players were innocent. His support never wavered. Conversely, he was offered up as the sacrificial lamb by a freaked-out, knee-jerk president and a please-don’t-fire-me-too athletic director named Joe Alleva.

The Presslers now must uproot their daughters and pack not only their belongings but a thoroughly unwarranted stigma as they move to Smithfield, R.I. where Pressler is coaching at Bryant University, a Division II school. No disrespect to the Bryant Bulldogs, but Pressler has gone from the penthouse to the Port-a-Potty.

My guess is that Bryant will be a national power in less than five years. Pressler spent 16 seasons at Duke, compiling a 153-82 record with three ACC championships, 10 NCAA Tournament berths and an appearance in the 2005 national championship game. He was named the 2005 USILA National Coach of the Year.

He is, by all accounts, a great coach.

That didn’t matter. One reason it didn’t matter is the seething resentment of collegiate athletics by most of the academic community. Eighty-eight professors at Duke came barreling out in unified indignation aimed at Pressler. He had let the lacrosse players get out of control. He was turning a blind eye to their depravity. He was personally packing the one-hitters and cleaning out the beer bongs. He was Bluto in a Blue Devils hat!

All of which is just ridiculous. For some reason, professors want to believe that big-time athletics are 100% horrible. They want to believe that college athletics are a blight that irreparably harms the education process. And that the coaches are somehow inherently responsible for the behavior of the students on their teams. Or worse, encourage it and foster some sort of bacchanalian atmosphere.

Well, you heard it here first, the head coach of any collegiate team bears NO responsibility for keggers thrown, bongs smoked, blowjobs gotten and acid dropped. None.

Actually, I’ll amend that.

The head coach bears exactly the same amount of responsibility as each student’s academic advisor, RA and the admissions staff. Especially at a school as prestigious as Duke. Sure, Pressler recruited them. But you guys let them in. And you guys advise them on their majors and what courses to take and how to navigate the treacherous waters of self-important, insulated, tenured educators who only break a sweat when the elevators are broken.

Ironically, in the arena of setting an example of how one might conduct oneself in the real world, Pressler has been a champion. The enlightened ones at Duke charged with the betterment of our privileged young citizens have, in a word, sucked.

How do I come by this razor-sharp insight? I was a college athlete myself. As it happens , my career as a student-athlete-partier overlapped that of Mike Pressler’s. We both attended Washington and Lee University. He was three years ahead of me. He was an All-American football and lacrosse player. I was a basketball player – minus the All-American. Minus the All-Campus for that matter. He was elected to the W&L athletic Hall of Fame. I was elected keymaster a few times.

My basketball coach was Verne Canfield, a hard-ass stickler who played every mind game in the book. And I still drank too much beer and tried to sleep with many different girls. (Ed. emphasis added by the aforementioned Many Different Girls.)

Verne had early-morning Saturday practices. And I still did shots of Jager until I passed out on the footbridge wrapped in a Snoopy blanket. Verne rode us about our grades. And I still tried to drive along the foggy Skyline Drive while on mushrooms.

The point is — General Patton could have been my coach and I still would have played quarters until I puked through my nose.

It is called being away at college. And no coach should be expected to be responsible for any of that foolishness. Namely, because it is impossible. Mike Pressler was busy coaching and being a good husband and father. He didn’t have time to monitor the latest beer hats and strip Twister games.

And one more thing. Let’s just get it out in the open. Lacrosse players are prodigious partiers. Always have been, always will be. So are large numbers of non-athletic students. Always have been, always will be. Young men and women away at college are allowed to behave like immature assholes. Because that is what they are.

And no one is going to change that.

And its not Mike Pressler’s fault.

I knew Mike Pressler for a short time --- and yet he left an impression. He dedicated himself completely to whatever he undertook. He was intense. He was a maniac on the field. He was a coach’s dream. I’m sure he did many boneheaded things off the field in his illustrious four years at college. Because he was an idiot. Just like everyone else.

Pressler is the man he is, in large part, because of the sum of his experiences at Washington and Lee. Not only is he one of the best in his chosen profession, he has proven himself time and again to be principled, honorable and loyal.

Too bad the same can’t be said for his former colleagues at Duke.

If you want to read Pressler’s whole side of the story, it comes out in June:
It's Not About the Truth: The Untold Story of the Duke Lacrosse Rape Case and the Lives It Shattered by Don Yeager and Mike Pressler