… as in olden days

Mrs. Z and I (well, Mrs. Z mostly) put up our Christmas tree Sunday night. I’ll give those of you who know us fairly well a moment to recover.

You see, we haven’t always been the most festive observers of the Yuletide season. It probably started 12 years ago, when my father passed away suddenly a month before Christmas. The next two years, I was saddled with major illnesses around the holidays. After that … well, we were out of practice.

Now don’t get me wrong, we always celebrate Christmas and are happy to do so. It’s just that we don’t generally have a month-long run-up of THE CHRISTMAS SPIRIT. Last year, that started to change when Mrs. Z and I started a new Christmas Eve tradition, the Downtown Dash. (You can read all about that here.)

But this year, we both got a full dose of THE CHRISTMAS SPIRIT – and early. A large amount of the credit has to go to this lovely lady, who not only shared with us her exuberance for the holidays, but was a real inspiration for our renovating "The Pit." With a clean and organized apartment, we were able to purchase a new Christmas tree and give it a wonderful home where the coffee table normally sits.

By the time it was set up – with its white lights, silver-bell garland, red ribbons, silver ball ornaments, candy canes and a few-sizes-too-large, tree-topping star, I could only stare at it slack-jawed and murmur “It’s beautiful” repeatedly. It really is. And it was in that moment that I realized THE CHRISTMAS SPIRIT had just swept over me like a wave in which I didn’t mind drowning.

While this glorious tree has had a lot to do with it, my joy this Christmastime has as much to do with being surrounded by and closer to those I love — perhaps more than ever before. This year has brought a lot of turmoil, but overcoming such strife has left me with a feeling of gratitude I could never have had if the 2006 had gone smoothly.

As I sit bathed in the surprisingly bright glow of the Christmas tree, I can feel its white light pouring into my heart. And it seems to be offering itself as a candle I can hold out before me to light the way in the coming year. I reach out to take the hands of those who love me and invite them to walk with me.

This glow, this light, this SPIRIT … I offer it to you, dear readers. Take some of it to light your way. Let’s walk together, if only for a little while.

Merry Christmas.

I dare you not to smile

Just when you think it can't get any better, the counter hits 1:09.

A bit of music fanboyishness

I just sent this off to Lindsey Buckingham.

Lindsey:

I hardly ever write fan mail, but I just wanted to drop you a note and thank you for your music. I had been aware of your music (and that of Fleetwood Mac) for many, many years, but I only really started to listen to it in the last five years. During that time, my admiration for your songwriting, instrumental craftsmanship and passionate singing has grown exponentially.

Then, last night, I watched your CMT "Crossroads" special with Little Big Town and was reminded anew how you pour yourself into your music more than any other artist I know. And I thought about one of my biggest regrets: how I wish I could have become a devoted fan of yours while my father was still alive (he passed away in 1994). Dad was a great guitarist and soaked up the work of other fantastic guitar players, and I am convinced he would have been as big a Lindsey Buckingham fanatic as I have become. Indeed, I think of my father often when I listen to your music. And that's just another reason to love your work.

So that's why I'm writing: to tell you how much your music has touched me and to thank you for it. I'm glad your latest work is getting good recognition, and I wish you the best as your career continues.

Stephen Sykes
Springfield, IL

If you want some prime examples of why I'm gushing, check out "Under the Skin" or "Out of the Cradle."

Extra crispy legislation: government moves to save us from ourselves

It was barely more than a “News of the Weird” item when word began circulating that New York City was considering outlawing the use of trans fats in its restaurants. How would the archetypical NYC cop survive without donuts, one of the most egregious trans-fat transgressors? And we chuckled.

Today, the trans-fat ruling is the lead item on many online news services.

‘The Board of Health voted Tuesday to make New York the nation’s first city to ban artery-clogging artificial trans fats at restaurants — from the corner pizzeria to high-end bakeries,” states MSNBC.com. “Restaurants will be barred from using most frying oils containing artificial trans fats by July and will have to eliminate the artificial trans fats from all of their foods by July 2008.”

The ban is not New York’s first foray into aggressive health promotion. The city was one of the first to enact a comprehensive public smoking ban — a legislative trend which only recently reached my hometown of “Springpatch,” Ill. So within three years, NYC has moved to clear its residents’ lungs and its arteries.

Here’s the $64,000 question. Many of us are, at best, offended, and at worst, frightened, when a government tries to tell us what is immoral or obscene (see gay marriage or Nipplegate). But what will the volume of the outcry be as government begins to legislate health more and more? Readers?

Slingin' and swingin'

You Are Spider-Man

Quick and agile, you have killer instincts (literally). And that kind of makes up for the whole creepy spider thing.

What Superhero Are You?

Eat your heart out, Jack London

Mrs. Z is home. My office is closing at 3 p.m. because of the encroaching wintry mess. Life is good.

In praise of Douglas

"Asking people about their opinions is a very good way of making friends. Telling them about your own opinions can also work, but not always quite as well."

The preceding quote is from my favorite writer of all time, England's Douglas Adams. He is one of the most brilliant humorists and least obnoxious activists ever to walk this Earth. Adams is best known for having written “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy” and its four sequels.

A note, here. If you find me funny personally, or if you like my writing, please, please, PLEASE find and read a copy of “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.” It was the single most influential work as far as both my sense of humor and my writing style are concerned. And don’t try to watch the movie first. It will most likely leave you feeling lost and disillusioned. (Now there are many Adams fans who have read the book many time, yet still claim to have felt lost and disillusioned after watching the movie. That is entirely their problem.)

The reason I bring Douglas Adams up is that one of the things I’ve done to pass the time while Mrs. Z’s been away this week is read a wonderful compilation of Adams’s writings called “The Salmon of Doubt.” The book contains the highlights of what was on his Macintosh at the time of his tragically early death – including an unfinished novel. I have particularly enjoyed the essays included in the book, which cover everything from The Beatles to climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro in a rhino suit. And scattered amongst these writings are nuggets of wisdom like the one I opened this post with – which, incidentally, is from an essay entitled “For Children Only.”

Brilliant stuff, and it got me thinking. If you had access to the personal writings of anyone you chose, who would it be and why? Write a blog entry about it if you like, or merely use this blog’s comment space.

And for goodness’s sake, please read some Douglas Adams. It will make you smile.

What's been going on ...

Well, kids, as you can surmise from the time gap between my previous entry and this one, plenty has been going on in Zoomland – only a fraction of which shall be discussed in this post. That restrictive disclaimer aside, there is still quite a bit to get to, so let’s get to it.

I should first mention Mrs. Z. is, due to a series of extraordinary kindnesses, in the midst of a week’s sabbatical visiting a dear friend in Minnesota. She’s having a great trip, which is not to say she needed some time away from me; rather, she needed some time to and for herself. And that is something she’s had precious little of in the nearly 15 years we’ve been married. It already seems to be agreeing with her, based on this photo I received from her.

Part of the upshot of all this is my spending more time with my mother, or “Z-Mom,“ as I have just now decided to refer to her. While it has been at times maddening spending so much time with someone who admits to still seeing me as 10 years old half the time, it has been, for the most part, a pleasant if somewhat poignant experience. You see, as much as she still sees me as 10, I still see her as 50ish. And to see her age – particularly during the weekend together – has been difficult.

On the plus side, we’ve seen some pretty awesome movies.

First and foremost, I must add my voice to the universal choir singing the praises of “Casino Royale.” Daniel Craig is the best Bond since Sean Connery, and the movie does a great job of recapturing the original essence of 007. This isn’t to say the rest of the Bond films are crap, but they’d become such self-caricatures that they were in danger of becoming irrelevant. Not anymore!

We also saw the latest Denzel Washington/Tony Scott film, “Déjà Vu.” I do recommend it for its sheer entertainment value, but I have a hard time giving it an unqualified “thumbs up.” Because I don’t want to give away any of the movie (and discovery is a big draw to this film), I will just say that “Déjà Vu” deftly switches genres about a third of the way through, then causes fans of that genre to roll their eyes with what I consider a copout ending. That said, it’s very much worth seeing, and in the theater at that.

Then there’s “The Fountain.”


Z-Mom and I saw the Hugh Jackman-Rachel Weisz film on Saturday. No less than six people walked out during the movie, and one young lady who managed to stick through it was heard to mutter, “I have no idea what that was fucking about.” We tended to agree, though Z-Mom would be loath to use such language in public. I know for a fact, however, that she was thinking “What the fuck?” throughout. And I’m sure she still is.

However, the more that I think about it, the more this initially incomprehensible opus is growing on me in precisely the way “Magnolia” didn’t. Its visuals are breathtaking, its acting sincere and its score singularly beautiful. I’m still saying “What the fuck?” but I think I actually like it now. And if I see it again, I’m pretty sure I’ll love it.

Coming soon: more on my week of bachelorhood, including how I quit smoking. (GASP! Literally!)

17 days (cough, cough)

So many cool things happening in my life. So little time to talk about them. So instead, I'll just draw your attention to the fact my Amazon wish list is back up and running, because October really is the coolest month. Just type in "Steve Sykes" to see what I wants.

Ciaaaoooo ...

Tickle me emo

Within the past week, I found out that I had inadvertently hurt the feelings of a couple of very dear friends. I’m happy to report those fences have been mended; otherwise, I’d still be in the pasture swinging a hammer rather than putzing around Blogger. But while I was still in damage control mode, I searched for a cute little animated smiley that would allow me to apologize with irresistible charm and cuteness. So I did some trolling through Photobucket using the keyword, “Sorry.”

The search results confirmed what I had long suspected: the Internet has been overrun by intelligent-yet-pretentious, angst-ridden emoteens.

For those who want a full refresher course in this pop culture phenomenon, check Wikipedia’s entry on Emo. Here’s the Reader’s Digest version: think Goth without the cool fashion sense or the good music.

My “Sorry” search started out innocently enough: there was this little message that was merely a little pouty.


Then the angst began to truly flow.


I found several different variations on this little ditty, which stopped me dead (pardon my pun) in my tracks.


The combination of this item’s morbidity and its ubiquity kind of lends it a unintended humor. I mean, the Photobucket search results suggest it’s downright trndy to express your regret through stylishly suicidal art. Yikes!

Well, once I started chuckling at the artistic angst of others, I couldn’t stop.


And I’m sorry I keep forgetting to turn off the hall light. But know that it’s ripping my soul out!



The lyrics are just about incomprehensible, but it’s the photo that’s genius here. The poor gent seems to be saying “How did I let my girlfriend convince me to buy this couch instead of the futon I wanted. My friends are going to think I am totally whipped!”

And then, there was the image that needed no additional commentary.


Indeed.

Conclusions? It’s no longer hard to say you’re sorry – especially if you’re willing to tear out your spleen for the one you love.

Banksy shots

This is going to be one of those copout posts. You've been warned. Sorry, but for someone not doing much, I've had a lot going on.

Nevertheless, this is a value-added entry. I'd like to show you some of the most provocative modern art I've ever seen. It gives me a bit of an idea why Andy Warhol was apparently so important.

The artist's name is Banksy, and those of you who follow pop culture may know him as the artist-prankster who secretly replaced hundreds of Paris Hilton CD's with his own bootlegs, complete with scandalously titilating Photoshopped variations on the original jacket art.

But there's a serious mind buried within this jester. And some incredible talent as well. Here's one of my favorite pieces from his latest exhibition:


For more, follow the link in this post's title.

Remembering

On the morning of Sept. 11, 2001, the first thing I noticed was that WMAY, our principal AM news station, was hosting a live remote from the Mel-O-Cream doughnut shop at the Sixth Street end of our alley. (It’s now a Jimmy John’s.) I grabbed a free doughnut and headed to work. It was about 7:50 a.m. When I got to work, several things happened simultaneously: I heard some sort of accident had happened at the World Trade Center, I got a call from my wife saying a plane had hit one of the Twin Towers, and I noticed I couldn’t reach any of the news Web sites I had bookmarked on my computer.

We didn’t have a TV in the building, but my wife had one in her office, so she fed me regular updates. The second plane hit the WTC at about the same time we were able to set up a radio to hear the news from New York. My wife, who had had a bad feeling with the first plane strike, now was convinced we were under attack.

Of course, it was hard for me to form any opinions, as I couldn’t see what was going on. The Web was still log-jammed from billions of hits from people like me, who were wondering what the hell was going on. Then, I got the call from my wife saying the Pentagon had been hit. That’s when I really started to panic.

But there was no time for panic, as one of my work colleagues who had planned to get married in the county courthouse two blocks away had decided that she was going through with the wedding. I joined the procession of work friends who made the quiet walk to the courthouse. I remember looking out the window of the fifth floor wondering if a county courthouse in a capital city was a viable target. As it turned out, the wedding went off without a hitch. In retrospect, it was a bold statement that life could go on in the midst of such barbarism.

But life would never be the same. And I guess that’s what I carry with me five years later: an anger that 19 fanatics could rob a country of its innocence and joy – a robbery from which I would argue we still haven’t recovered. Nor may we ever. That there has to be a post-9/11 world still fills me with bitterness if I think about it too long. But today is a day for remembering. And despite the bitterness remembrance brings, I owe it to those who died that day to remember.

As do we all.

Whither Pluto?

It’s not every day your solar system gets remapped. And yet, today, a group of Really Important Men in Really Impressive White Coats have decided that Pluto shall no longer be named a planet. Instead, it will be henceforth named a “dwarf.”

Why don’t they just call it “Billy Barty”?

Trying to make Pluto supporters feel better, Irish astronomer Jocelyn Bell Burnell said, ”It could be argued that we are creating an umbrella called ‘planet’ under which the dwarf planets exist.”

Sure, Jocelyn … why don’t you just tell Pluto you still wanna be friends?

Did I mention ole Joss was waving a stuffed Pluto doll under an umbrella when she tried to make us all feel better? Oh, that makes all the planetary pain go away. Bitch.

***

In happier news, my blood sugar seems to be stabilizing in the high 90s, which takes me out of the diabetes danger zone. (Cue the Kenny Loggins music.) And my dietician has taken me off the Atkinsy-type diet I was on and put me on a more tradition, 1800-calorie, 300 carb-a-day diet. And, at the cost of stabbing my finger most every day for a week, I have learned how much I can “get away with” and maintain a healthy blood sugar level.

All in all, life is settling way down, which means you may see more of these witty slices of life, dear readers. “About time,” you say? I agree.

How I learned to stop missing muffins

In the past three weeks:

• I have served a half-day of jury duty.
• I have lost my Uncle Fred.
• I have completed work on one of the most emotionally taxing work projects ever.
• I have started seven more.
• I have had one cheat night out of two-and-a-hald weeks on a low-carb diet.
• I have lost somewhere in the neighborhood of 20 pounds. (Weighing someone in a wheelchair is an imprecise science, unless you happen to have easy access to a loading dock cargo scale.)
• I have endured 12 hours of thinking I had lost one of my best friends (though not in the way I lost my Uncle Fred, thank God).
• I have started exercising.
• I have purchased three really cheap video games.

And those are just the highlights. Until I have time to dwell on one or more of these subjects, I give you a silly and, at times, disturbing video that has curbed my craving for blueberry muffins.

Alas, biscuits! Alas, gravy!

The Good Doctor is in for a lifestyle change.

No, not that kind of lifestyle change, silly ... although there is a rather interesting blog post there which will wait for a day down the line.

I have been diagnosed as pre-diabetic.

Here are some numbers for those of you with a frame of reference: my A1C was 6.2 (depending on your scale, "normal" is below either 6 or 7) and my fasting blood sugar was 105 ("normal" is between 60 and 110). Because those numbers are borderlinish, and because my mom and dad both had adult-onset diabetes, he went ahead and diagnosed me.He wants me to see a diabetes dietician (which I will be doing) and start taking metformin (which I am not going to do -- not yet, anyway.) Regardless, my diet is going to have to change, and in researching the dietician's likely suggestions, I was thrown for a nasty loop.

Donuts? Gone. (Actually, all sweets are, for that matter, but the loss of donuts is the only devastating one for me.) Gravy? Gone. White rice? Gone. Pasta? Gone.

And here's a biggie. Alcohol? Gone.

Now, I'm not what I would consider close to being an alcoholic. But every week or two, I want to get shit-faced. So this part of the diabetic diet really, really, REALLY sucks. I sit here wondering how I will fill my own party prescriptions now? And what of biscuits and gravy?

Shaker songs

Well, folks, I apologize for my blogoreticence as of late, but as Steve Miller sang, “There’s lots of funky shit going down in the city.” Work has been extremely pressurized (though still rewarding) as of late. Meanwhile, our home life, while as sweet as ever, has been in flux due to a number of factors, including Mrs. Z’s need to bow out of her summer show due to work conflicts.

The practical upshot of all this has been a dearth of blog posts. And it’s you, the reader, who has suffered. I apologize and hope this entry will help make up for it.

I want to talk about music. More to the point, I want to talk about music that isn’t necessarily your favorite or the staple of your iPod track list. I don’t want to spend time discussing music that’s danceable or hummable. I want to talk about five songs that, for one reason or another, have a profound emotional effect on me. And on you. But I’ll go first.














Vangelis
“First Approach”

Most listeners know Vangelis for one song and one song only: the theme to “Chariots of Fire.” While this song is memorable, it represents but a fraction of the Greek composer’s music. A lot of it has either a “spacey” theme or sound – or both. Such is the case with the CD “Direct,” released in 1990. But while “spacey” might suggest tacky, synthesized, mechanical music, the next-to-the-last track on “Direct” is anything but. Marked by a beautiful melody and a heartfelt cello solo, “First Approach” evokes a breathtaking mental image of an astronaut preparing to dock at a station after years in the isolation of space. And if you close your eyes, you can feel the ache of loneliness melting away into the relief of finally being at rest.


Bobby McFerrin
“Common Threads”

I’m not sure what it was about 1990, but it also produced this gorgeous song by Bobby McFerrin. Part of the gut-punching quality of this song comes from knowing the story behind its composition: McFerrin was commissioned to write it to accompany a documentary on the AIDS quilt. But one need not know the back-story to feel the weight of this wordless lullaby. Its gorgeous harmonies convey a sense of premature sorrow mingled with hope against all odds — a mixture that somehow reminds me of “Seasons of Love,” which would be recorded six years later.


John Rutter
“Gloria: Second Movement (Andante)”

Anyone who has ever sung any amount of choral music has made friends with Mr. Rutter. All of his music is beautiful, and particularly his three-movement standard for high school all-state choirs: “Gloria.” But while the first and third movements have joy and energy to spare, it is the second movement that really packs an emotional wallop. Led by a quietly exotic organ solo and layered male vocals, the music builds until a full brass ensemble and the entire choir burst forth in majestic sound. Then, suddenly, the sound becomes to a single note, which falls away into once-again quiet, but rich, harmonies. If heaven has a soundtrack, it is this song.


The Manhattan Transfer
“Foreign Affair”

Closing out the jazz quartet’s breakthrough album “Extensions,” which included much better known songs like “Birdland” and “Twilight Tone,” is this a capella number. It defines cool because it combines incredibly sophisticated lyrics (so awesomely verbose I had to copy them down into a spiral notebook as a kid — there was not lyric sheet with the cassette) with absolutely gorgeous jazz harmony. But it’s the out-of-nowhere last chord that puts it on this list for me. I get goose bumps every time I hear it.


Barry Manilow
“Once Voice”

I probably shouldn’t admit it, but there’s still one Barry Manilow song that absolutely does it for me. It’s just as schmaltzy as the rest of the Manilow canon, but “One Voice” is perhaps the purest match between music and lyrics ever. Plus, it has some whiz-bang a capella studio overdubbing to the nth degree, which I'm a sucker for anyway. But the clincher is the soaring, everybody-join-hands final chorus. I dare you to not be smiling at the end of it.

So, what five songs shake you to your emotional core? Respond on your own blog, or your MySpace bulletin, or in these comments.

R.I.P., Nathan Cooke

A local performer and artist, Nathan was only 2/3 my age when he passed away last night, but did three times the living. His star burned briefly, but brilliantly. He will be greatly missed.

Now playing: The official song of summer 2006?

Not only is it a cool song, but the band is dressed up as Star Wars characters. What better way is there to make sure The Force is with you?

Now normally, I'd just attempt to get away with letting the multimedia presentation carrying this post. But not this time, dear readers. You deserve more.

So, on to a recap of the last two weeks or so.

"Annie Warbucks" opened to crowds of 1,072 on Friday and 729 on Sunday. We were rained out Saturday.

Our parade was also rained upon by a surprisingly harsh review. I'd link you to it, but a subscription is required, and Zoomie don't play that. Suffice it to say that the review started with four paragraphs of criticism of the material as a pale copy of the original "Annie." Unfortunately, the going only got rougher as the director and many of the principals got roughed up. Yours truly actually got a positive individual review, but it seems rather a Pyrrhic victory.

I have never been one to take reviews to heart for long, and I definitely don't hold with the conventional wisdom that community theater should be given a wide berth simply because it is community theater. Either you want your show reviewed or you don't. There really is no such thing as bad publicity.

However, the Springfield masses aren't with me on this one, and as a result, a flood of letters to the editor in our support crashed through the State Journal-Register editorial pages (along with one brave soul who actually agreed with the review, a rarity to be sure). And yet, the most interesting part of this story is a bit of controversy as to whether the reviewer actually stayed for the whole thing. There are, apparently, witnesses who either saw here leaving or standing at the back gate to the site during Act II. The paper has issued a denial, and I will leave the matter there. That said, it has been interesting to see a dash of scandal mixed in with the more traditional outrage sauce.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Z has started rehearsals for "Aida," which, by all accounts, should rock. I'm looking forward to taking it in, as I've never seen the show.

Also, we're in the process of cobbling together an audition for the Springfield Theatre Centre's production of "Assassins." Auditions are a week and a half away. I wouldn't say we're panicked, but ... NYEAAGHHH!!!!

Finally, assuming we survive that experience, we're looking forward toward a truly utopian vacation cum anniversary celebration the weekend after. Quality time with the Mrs. ... adventure ... relaxation ... they're all in the cards, and I'm all in!

So there you have it, dear readers. Overall, life is good, and I have to admit it's getting better all the time.

Not to harp on the hair, but ...

It has apparently taken over my personality ...

You Are Dr. Bunsen Honeydew

You take the title "mad scientist" to the extreme -with very scary things coming out of your lab.And you've invented some pretty cool things, from a banana sharpener to a robot politician.But while you're busy turning gold into cottage cheese, you need to watch out for poor little Beaker! "Oh, that's very naughty, Beaker! Now you eat these paper clips this minute."

The Muppet Personality Test

The things I do for my art

In order to play this guy …



I’ve had to shave my goatee and drastically cut my hair, which has left me looking like this guy …



Unfortunately, once I put my show toupee on, I look like this guy …



which actually makes me miss looking like this guy …

Have a slice of me

Everything Pizza

Diverse and adaptable, you enjoy the full buffet of life. It's hard to you play favorites with friends ... or flavors. There's very little that you dislike!

What's Your Pizza Personality?

Get up. Go to work. Go to rehearsal. Go to bed. Rinse. Repeat.

That's going to be my life for about the next two-and-a-half weeks, so bear with me if I'm not quite as jocular as usual. I'm jolly on the inside!

Welcome to my nightmare(s)

(Note to readers: This is the first official DrAstroZoom Myspace blog simulcast.)

Last weekend, I had two remarkably similar dreams in one night. They still have me somewhat baffled.

In the first dream, I was to play a leading role in a musical version of “Hamlet.” (It may have even been Hamlet himself, but I’m not sure.) The production had a rock-opera feel to it along the lines of what Andrew Lloyd Webber might have generated had he set his sights on the Prince of Denmark rather than the Prince of Peace. And it was in a far more ornate theater than I’ve ever performed in.

On the first day of tech week, however, I was attacked by birds that pecked at my legs. I was left with unsightly sores that threatened infection. Regardless, I attempted to soldier on, but my performance that night was horrible.

Later that night, a similar dream came. This time, I was the Emcee in Cabaret, and again, the venue had a professional (if antiquated) feel about it. As I left the dressing area to go on, I realized the ramps to the stage had been removed. I somehow made it on stage, only to discover the stage was drenched, causing me to slip and slide, even at one point flying from a raised portion of the stage to a lower level down center. Again, my performance was wild, sloppy and generally pathetic.

And that’s all I remember.

I immediately dismissed the idea that these dreams were related to my current show. Actually, “Annie Warbucks” is going quite well and is a far cry from what devoted readers will lovingly remember as “Theater Armageddon.” My next audition is for “Assassins,” but that audition date had not been announced when I had these dreams, and I hadn’t even begun pre-obsession over it.

All I know is this pair of dreams were as vivid as any I’ve had for months. I also found it curious that not only was I clearly in a wheelchair in both dreams, but it played a part in the “plot” of both. This, too, is relatively rare for me.

In other news, Mrs. Z is headed to southern Illinois tomorrow for her sister’s 25th wedding anniversary. She has mercifully allowed me to stay home, seeing as I’m moving into the most grueling part of my AW rehearsal schedule. Still, even one night away from her is cause for sadness. I’ll have my mom to take me to dinner and a movie, but that doesn’t hold a candle to Mrs. Z. (Sorry, Mom.)

All that said, I’m not remotely in the state of melancholy this post would seem to indicate. Quite the obvious: life is good right now, and as Howard Jones sang, “Things can only get better.”

Who oh ohhh oh who ohhh oh, indeed.

That sinking feeling

Take the "Which Poseidon character are you?" test at Hell in a Handbag Productions

So, I'm an Ernest Borgnine character. Exciting!

So, too, is the movie translation of "Aeon Flux." If you're a sci-fi fan, don't believe the inexplicably preponderant negative critical reviews of this movie. Instead, enjoy a fairly thoughtful plot, exquisitely crafted visuals and action sequences and ... oh yes ... Charlize Theron. Grr, baby. Very grr.

I'll try to build on my tentatively progressing blogging momentum this week, dear readers. Keep the faith.

How to see in the dark

I apologize for my radio silence, dear readers. Life has been imposing itself, and I take consecutive moments I have to breath without an agenda as blessed.

To make up for my absence, I point you to a page that does, in fact, explain how you can see in the dark. Just click the link above!

A musical interlude

If you don't recognize this tune, marvel at the guitar ambidexterity. If you do, enjoy the warm fuzzy.

Hate the sin. Love the spinners.

Let me start by saying I was appalled and offended by the ending of this week’s conclusion of the two-part “South Park” episode “Cartoon Wars.” The depiction of Jesus, President Bush and the American flag was, by turns, rude and sacrilegious. That said … I totally see where the show’s evil geniuses, Matt Stone and Trey Parker, were coming from and can’t help but applaud their ingenuity in making a valid point.

To catch up, click the link in this post’s headline.

What started as a skewering of Scientology has blossomed into an animated debate on censorship and hypocrisy. When Comedy Central refused to show Mohammed as part of thew climax of “Cartoon Wars,” Stone and Parker decided to end the show by cramming in all the offensive material the network would allow, couched within a fictional retaliatory film by Al Qaeda.

The decision on the Mohammed image was apparently “made over concerns for public safety.” Or as the network itself said in a statement: "In light of recent world events, we feel we made the right decision."

Seeing Comedy Central would allow blasphemous images of Christ where it wouldn’t air an image of Mohammed, the network was essentially saying: “We trust Christians not to go all crazy and stuff. Muslims, on the other hand …”

And how offensive is that?

Image Essays, Part 2: The Subconscious

Right from the moment I awoke this morning, there was something amiss. I should have been up at 6:30 a.m.; I ended up snoozing it until 7:15. And when I did get up, I commented to Mrs. Z. that I didn’t feel like I slept well.

But even as I said that, it didn’t ring true. I didn’t remember any extended periods of sleeplessness through the night. Worse still, my vague unsettledness had turned into a vague depression, for which I had even less justification.

Then, I had a flash of a dream I realized I had had just before waking. It’s a recurring nightmare in which my father, who passed away 12 years ago of a sudden heart attack, has not died, but instead lives on in a greatly weakened state with only a matter of time remaining before his death. And as an added bonus, my mom was in a similar condition in this particular dream.

A funny thing, the subconscious. As far as I am concerned, I have long since grieved for my father to the point of closure, and yet these dreams resurface. Do I still have subconscious issues concerning my father to accompany the quite conscious fears I have of seeing my mom grow old?
The most ironic thing is that this dream and the subsequent nervous introspection follow what I would consider four of the happier consecutive days I’ve had in a while. What to do when one’s mind’s eye develops a twitch?

Orbits: Part 1 of an Open-Ended Image Essay Series

I have a tendency to give people the benefit of the doubt -- perhaps to a fault. One example is my forgiving nature when it comes to friends who fall out of contact with me. My explanation for this is that people are like celestial bodies -- all with their own orbits. They rotate around the things that are most important in their lives, and it's not my place to judge the center of someone's universe.

Rather, I enjoy the time my oribt takes me into the paths of friends whom I don't see often. And I trust the fact that once our orbits have completed, we'll enjoy fellowship again.

True friends, on the other hand are gravitationally attracted to one another to the point where the orbits seem to coalesce. And those are special friends indeed.

(One editorial note: I apologize for my infrequency of posting, but health and other issues have kept me away. Hopefully this bit of metaphysical meat is enough for you to chew on for a while.)

Happy St. Patrick's Day

THE CELTS (Enya)

Video Code provided by VideoCodeZone.Com

In honor of the Emerald Isle, enjoy a little Enya. And thanks to CatPants for letting me know about VideoCodeZone.

We are supposed to make much revelry tonight and tomorrow, but Mrs. Z was feeling puny this morning, so we're not certain what the future holds. I've been informed I may need to take over as, in her words, "Party Master."

I'll brief you Monday.

After the storm

Photo by T.J. Salsman

So very much to write about.

First of all, thanks to all of my readers who expressed concern for our safety after the storm. This was a time it was very good to be living in an English basement downtown. Our apartment proper was undamaged, though the complex’s courtyard showed the signs of the storm. (The patio furniture was smashed and twisted together.)

Furthermore, because we live so close to St. John’s Hospital, we were two of about 2,000 residents who has their power restored within an hour of the storm’s passing. It was surreal to, at 10 p.m., circle our block, which looked relatively normal, but look just a block away into a pitch-black void. It was much like the moment of realization for the lead character in “Dark City” in which he almost falls into space. Though the experience was unsettling, at least we were able to return to the comfort of our well-lit home. Others weren’t so lucky.

















photo by T.J. Salsman

It was only when daylight broke and pictures started hitting our local media that I was able to grasp the scope of what had happened. You could tell it took our local media by surprise, too. It’s one thing to report on a twister in a rural central Illinois town. It’s quite another when it’s your city that looks like a war zone.
















photo by Shannon Kirshner

Still today, three days after the storm flattened sections of both the west and east side, about 20 percent of Illinois’s capital city has no power. Mrs. Z and I are truly blessed, and we’re grateful. Meanwhile, life goes on.



























And Muni casting went on. I will be playing FDR in “Annie Warbucks” (the fourth time I have played Roosevelt on stage), while Mrs. Z will be in the chorus of “Aida.” Unfortunately, it means me and the missus will be two ships passing in the night for most of the summer. This means we have to celebrate while we can.

















And celebrate we will, starting tonight at the Hickory River Smokehouse, home to Springfield’s finest barbecue. And the celebration will continue this weekend, as we embrace our alcoholic heritage and revel in honor of St. Paddy.

Once more, with feeling

Yes, it's that time again. Muni auditions have arrived. This is me reading for Daddy Warbucks, moments after having read for Amos in Chicago. There have been no word on callbacks yet, but it's only 72 hours until the longest night of the year. More on that Monday.

Right now, however, life has a melancholy vibe. My mother has had pneumonia for two weeks and is entering her second round of antibiotics and her first round of Predazone.

I did get some good news this morning. Mrs. Z received the February Employee of the Month Award at her workplace. Way to go, baby!

Core despondence school

While I’m not at the “Suck, suck, suck, suck, SUCK!” stage, I have felt myself slipping into a melancholy state the last day and a half. Perhaps it’s a convergence of several nagging items:

Concern over my mom’s health. She has what I guess would be called “walking pneumonia,” in that she’s not in the hospital. But it’s never fun to hear someone you love suffering on the other end of the phone. She cancelled lunch with me today, so I know she’s really not feeling well.

Resignation over upcoming auditions for The Muni. There just aren’t a lot of meaty roles for me this year. I’ve had a great last 12 months as far as that goes, so I’m not as desperate to be cast as I normally would be under the same circumstances. But by the same token, I’m finding it hard to work up any enthusiasm for a fortnight that is usually the source of breathless anticipation and intrigue.

NFL labor strife. Admittedly, this doesn’t have much of a direct bearing on me personally, but one of the many reasons football is my favorite sport is it’s historical labor stability. Now, the landscape is just about to change forever, and it makes me sad for the immediate future of my favorite team and the long-term future of the sport in general.

It could just be my latent genetic tendency toward bipolarity manifesting. And that itself would be cause for a whole new level of joy.

***

Thankfully, as Mrs. Hammen says in “Airplane,” “At least I have a husband.” Err … a wife. And it was the inimitable Mrs. Z who this morning coined a brand new catch phrase. I’d like to share it with all my dear readers in hope it will spread faster than the Numa Numa Phenomenon. The phrase: "It's roller derby now."

DEFINITION: Entertainment that, having started out innovative and unique, has degenerated into appealing to the lowest common denominator.

ORIGIN: Mrs. Z and I are watching VH-1 as we get ready this morning when Madonna's new video for "Sorry" comes on. Mrs. Z, never having seen it before is inclined to dismiss it at the beginning.

"Oh, it's another boom box disco video."

But it holds her interest, which peaks during the dance break.

"So what ... is she keeping the rappers from rapping by doing yoga? Who knew that would work? This is great!"

But then, Madonna and all her posse start roller skating for the balance of the video.

"Oh," Mrs. Z comments. She sighs deeply. "Well, it's roller derby now," and starts to leave the room.

"I think you've invented a new catch phrase," I say.

We chuckle in agreement.

Ulysses lists

I have been racked by guilt over posting not a thing worth clipping and saving in past weeks that I have put off procrastination and decided to let my words flow in what some may identify as an homage to James Joyce. Others may just say "What the ...?"

The Chicago trip is fading into a burnt sienna memory even as plans take shape for a longer voyage in summer. We hope to revisit the sporty theatricalness of The Exchequer Pub, the spicy homestyle goodness of Harold's Chicken Shack, and the 24-hour-a-day instant gratification of Dunkin Donuts. Fie on thee, Mel-O-Cream, thou sad impostor!

But now, thoughts turn to the longest night of the year, in which my theatrical destiny shall be decided. Four shows beckon -- Annie Warbucks, Chicago, Aida and The King and I. And none may well bid me enter.

And now ... respite.

Have you heard the one about the lost camera?

A bit of a break from "all about me" posts here. A story is making its way through the blogosphere that is at one compelling, discouraging, maddening and fascinating. Follow the link above to find out what happens when someone loses their camera, finds out who found it and learns the finder has no intention of returning it.

Then read the 400+ comments. This event has officially become a phenomenon.

Just a dog-gone minute

I'm still trying to find time to do a legitimately meaty post about my fabulous weekend in Chicago. Here are the headlines: great trip, great food, great hotel and the most entertaining show I've ever seen.

But for now, just to give my dear readers some value-added content, I present a clip of the dog I am in another life:

A slice of things to come

As you might guess, this week's entries are going to be pretty-well dominated by the upcoming wonder-trip to Chicago. And since I do such a hit-and-miss job of blogging about big events after the fact, I figured I'd take a more pro-active approach with this trip and give you, dear reader, a preview of our itinerary.

We leave for Chicago Friday night. Once we're settled in at the Hilton, we're planning on getting what is areguable the best pizza in America: Giordano's. Up for debate: whether we walk (it's a little over half a mile from the hotel) or have it delivered. It will probably depend on the weather and how tired we are from the day.

In other news, Super Bowl weekend was a bit of a super dud, eh? I was hoping to win a little extra trip money playing Texas Hold 'Em, but it was not to be. And as for the game itself ... zzzz ...

More on the trip agenda tomorrow!

What a difference four days make

For those who read my rant on Monday, I sincerely apologize. I realize being a continuous inspiration is a serious respnsibility, and I was less than inspiring (and inspired) Monday.

That all changed last night, when I learned the lovely and talented Mrs. Z had won a sales contest at work. The prize? Two tickets to a Chcago performance of this little musical you may have heard of. (Hint: Look up.) And these tickets are in The Loge. Row B. Just off-center. Ho. Lee. Crap.

And if that isn't enough, the prizse package also included a two-night stay here. Oh, and all this is happening next weekend.

So if you care to find me, look to ... the ceiling, off of which I shall be continuously bouncing today.

I'm a Honda S2000!

You live on the edge, and you live for the adrenaline rush. You don't need luxuries, snob appeal, or superfluous gadgets. You put your top down, get your motor revving, and take all the curves that life throws at you at full speed. So what if you spin out occasionally?

And speaking of cars ...

This day has been a total wreck. Almost everything that could go wrong has gone wrong. And my frustrations, disappointments and aggravations have run the gamut from the trivial (one of my favorite Springfield restaurants closing down with no notice) to the merely annoying (a class full of new agents tromping by my cubicle all morning) to the genuinely sad (learning Mrs. Z and I can no longer communicate via e-mail during the day) to the disgustingly self-pitying (having one of those rare instances when I allow myself to dwell on how much it bites to be in a wheelchair).

Oh, and I was going to share a video clip to make good on my promise to explain what I was doing in a tux on New Year's Eve. Of course, that didn't work either. So here's why: I was singing at this event. Whoo-hoo. Just try to imagine the excitement.

In conclusion, I'd like to say, "Suck, suck, suck, suck, SUCK!"

Exit the petulant man-child.

Sunset epiphany

Yes, yes ... I know I promised the New Year's Eve story, and that will come. But first, I wanted to share one of those special moments that become a lasting snapshot in your memory.

The building pictured above is the Springfield Hilton, and it towers about a block away from my apartment. Most of the time, the structure is a monolith of gray stone and glass. But as I was rolling down the alley which leads to my apartment gate, I looked up at the Hilton and had my breath taken away.

You see, we've reached that point in the winter when night slowly gives back light to the day. While for most of December and January, nine-to-fivers are greeted with depressing darkness as they leave work, this is the time when sunset greets them instead.

Such was the case last night, and as I looked up in the alley, the Hilton was bathed in a golden light which gave the entire structure a warm, amber glow. And just as my mouth gaped open, a flock of birds swooped down into the alley and in front of the Hilton, completing the picture.

So remarkable was this split-second image that, at that moment, the birds could have turned my way and defecated on me en masse, and I wouldn't have cared.

Such is the momentary beauty that can make your day, if only you keep your eyes open.

Girls, girls ... you're both pretty

I’m about to post an entry that could result in not one, but two people never speaking to me again. Now that I have your attention …

The two people in question are both bloggers, and although I’ve never met either one of them personally, I have corresponded with both enough to call them friends. I follow their blogs closely, and for the most part, their writings are interesting and, quite frequently, compelling. I have no doubt that, given some proximity, I could become fairly close with both of them.

That said, these two bloggers have each devalued their blogs by ranting about each other within them. This has been going on intermittently for several months, by my count. And it appears to me to have roughly the maturity level of arguing over whose Hello Kitty screensaver is more awesome.

I have not attempted to do any detective work to determine who started it. I have no idea whose offenses are more egregious. Frankly, I don’t care. Don’t. Give. A. Shit. All I know is it’s tiresome, petty and a waste of bandwidth.

And so, at the risk of totally alienating the parties involved, I say: I’d love for you to be able to settle this like adults, but if you can’t, for all of our sakes, get over yourselves. Get over each other. Get on with life. Get back to the business of blogging.

Of course, you can write about whatever you want. But ask yourself … does anyone else want to read it?

End of sermon. Next up: why I wore a tux on New Year’s Eve.

The Downtown Dash

True to my word, herein starts the catch-up on my life in the period I fell off the blogging wagon.

Mrs. Z and I instituted a new tradition for Christmas this year.

The week before Christmas, we each made up a list of items we wanted or needed which could be obtained in downtown Springfield. We each made the list with the understanding that the other would not be able to get every item on the list, and if an item not appearing on the list struck the other’s fancy, he or she was free to add that to the haul.

On Christmas Eve, we started off with coffee here. For the record, the place does a wonderful quiche as well, but that’s not important right now. After coffee, we each took a pre-determined, modest amount of cash and set off in search of downtown treasures.

It was an exhilarating day of bargain hunting, and after we had ditched our individual loads in hiding places at home, we met here for lunch and to watch football. Unfortunately, the place was packed and even noisier than usual, so we headed home.

That night, we met Mom for dinner at Gallina’s Pizza. It was a nice, warm time marred only by the Case of the Missing Cat (I’ll blog on that another day). Soon, the missus and I headed home to listen to Christmas music, wrap our presents and drink hot chocolate with peppermint Schnapps.

We started out saying we would only unwrap a few presents that evening and save the rest for Christmas. But that fell by the wayside, and we ended up unwrapping all of our presents to each other as Christmas Eve turned into Christmas Morn. We marveled at how our choices showed how well we knew and loved each other.

As for the loot, here are a few highlights of what I got the missus:

• Three necklace charms by a local artist;
• A 1944 “Servicemen’s Family Album” printed by WLS-Chicago;
• A Duran Duran greatest hits collection;
• “Dante’s Peak” on DVD (she’s a sucker for disaster movies); and
• Chardonnay from the winery we visited during our magical Seattle vacation

And now, a few highlights of the treasure trove I received:

• A gorgeous (and lucky – more on that later) horseshoe ring;
• A Genesis greatest hits collection;
• The Sept. 18, 1972 issue of Sports Illustrated (notable both because it includes an NFL preview of the season which would turn out to be magical for the undefeated Miami Dolphins and three articles on the Munich Olympic tragedy);
• Some sweet cologne; and
• Volumes 1 and 2 of “Girls Gone Wild” on DVD.

We’ve got a groovy kind of love.

I haven't been eliminated

You're Vic Romano! You're almost always calm and
cool, but sometimes you'll get a little angry.

Which MXC Character are you?


Thanks to Mz. Ouiser for the link to this silly little quiz that gave me a great way to let you all know I haven't fled for Canada. Thanks to Maribou Sue and any other Web worry warts that had me lying in the proverbial ditch.

I had an incredibly busy and rich holiday season, and 2006 has been berry berry good to me so far. I'll try to catch you up, dear readers, in the next few days. Among topics to be covered:

1) A new tradition: the Christmas Downtown Dash
2) Why I wore a tux for New Year's Eve
3) My professional poker debut
4) How I was nearly kicked out of Hooter's

Chew on that for awhile, and I'll have an update soon.