A Not So Brief Intermission

This is a very personal, scattershot entry. If you're not prepared for this sort of thing from me, then leave. I will not be offended in the slightest (it's not like I'll know).

We all have those places where we find relaxation, solace and strength. They may be ours alone, although more often than not, we share them with others. Here's mine:

I know. Doesn't look like much, does it?

Nevertheless, I used to get so much rest, so much peace on this nondescript bench, which you'll still find on the 2nd floor of the Blocker Building at Texas A&M University. What peace I found owed partially to it usually being a stop on my way to one of this gentleman's classes.

This is Dr. Douglas Brooks. He was my mentor. He died last January. Somehow, I only found out 2 weeks ago.

I do not wish to pour my memories out for you all to read here; indeed, my stories of him are better heard than read. But I can't let his death go without some acknowledgment.

In the classroom, I loved the fact that he was always intellectually rebellious without being egotistical, a singularly uncommon trait in a professor. He gave me radical, yet intuitive ways to think not only about Shakespeare but indeed all of literature. For me to express those ideas here would be a disservice to the energetic elegance with which he imprinted them not only on me, but onto all of his students. He also angered more than a few people with his ideas, which drew--from me at least--nothing but admiration.

Out of the classroom, he completely changed my taste in a lot of areas, particularly film and music. We'd talk a lot about film, and as many ideas as he sparked in me, he presented so much more encouragement. Once upon a time, I gave some lectures to intro film classes at A&M, and he was always in the back row of the lecture hall. He didn't have to sit in; he just came to watch me, like a parent supporting his kid in the big game.

High expectations, bankrupt of pressure. I don't know if I've known that feeling from anyone since.

He also gave me Stanley Kubrick, David Cronenberg, and Hal Hartley. He gave me a copy of Trust many years ago, a gift which had many repercussions quite impossible for me to articulate here. That movie was one of many films, books, and albums he just gave me out of nowhere, merely because he thought I'd like them. I'm proud he bestowed that sense of random generosity upon me.

Douglas also entrusted me with his own work. While I was in College Station and even after I left, he allowed me to help him with his research and planning his courses. I loved every minute of it. He managed to make everything seem simultaneously important but lighthearted. Emphasizing the lighthearted was his specialty, and truth be told, I wouldn't be half the man I am today without him. Even with everything else he did for me, the most important thing was teaching me not to take myself so damned seriously.

I loved Douglas dearly. I'll miss him forever. I'll never forget him.

And as the man says, I'm tired of the people we need leaving us before their time.

We now resume regular programming. Thanks for listening, and good night.

Read: The Winter's Tale, by William Shakespeare

Watch: Trust (dir. Hal Hartley, 1991)

Listen to: Exposed, by Mike Oldfield

...and anything by The Residents.

P.S. If you are one of Douglas's former students and have somehow come across this blog, please feel free to add whatever comments about him you like.

In Memoriam

Another great. Gone.

My dad took me to see The Color of Money when I was eight years old. While The Hustler is a vastly superior film, that 1986 film was the first time I met Fast Eddie Felson. And amidst the many characters that have come and gone and occupied important places in my life, Fast Eddie's always been there. And he'll never leave.

But Mr. Newman? The only thing I'd add to all the wonderful things that he's said and that have been said about him, is that it's a difficult thing to be that good a gent while being that cool a gent.

And he did it as effortlessly as the smoothest straight shot to the pocket.

And the world's a lesser place for his leaving it.

Like Fast Eddie said, "It's just like one of those things that you never think about...but can make your day like electricity."

What to Say

I've been thinking all day about what I wanted to say about George Carlin's death. He was a man whose talent with, and insight into, our language and our society were singularly unrivalled. I've admired for him decades (dishearteningly strange that I can now say that with some truth).

My dad would let me watch Carlin's HBO specials with him ever since I was a kid, and I swear neither of us laughed so hard in all our lives. Indeed, I think Carlin was a huge influence on my dad's sense of humor, as well as his sense of the world (much as my dad might not think so sometimes). As a result of that connection, Carlin was an equally huge influence both on my sense of humor, and my sense of the world. I also shared the most trivial connection with Carlin: we had the same birthday.

All that said, though, I've been thinking all day, and I just haven't come up with words good enough for him. And, then, right before I go to bed this evening, Jon Stewart supplies me with the words I'm looking for.

At the end of his broadcast, Stewart simply said, "I'm getting awfully tired of the people we need leaving us."

And it hurts me to think how true that is...with regard to more than just Mr. Carlin.

I'm done for the evening. A good night to you all.