OSCAR BLATHER: Some quick thoughts about the Oscars thus far, not in any order...

Rock's opening monologue was not very funny, and the Bush jokes with the cutaways to a tittering Warren Beatty were so startlingly predictable and unfunny I was, well, startled.

This show is a disaster.

Mike Meyers looked really fat. Robin Williams was blindingly unfunny. I can't understand a damn thing Salma Hayek and that old Cruise girlfriend (ah, Cruz!) are saying.

I think this is the worst Oscars ever.

I loathe Whoopi Golberg. I love Cate Blanchett.

Halle Berry is so pretty I can't bear it.

This Spanish dude singing with Carlos Santana...sucks.

I felt good about the Morgan Freeman win. Career achievement award, etc.

I think the only movie I saw this past year was ANCHORMAN, which was pretty lame.

Thank God for Tivo.

Oprah looks kind of hot.

Renee Zellwegger has to be nuts. She looks nuts.

I'm glad Martin Scorcese's glasses obscure his caterpillar eyebrows.

Oh, shit, I'm all caught up on Tivo now. No more fast-forwarding. Maybe I'll have to go do something else and let Tivo get ahead. I can't watch this in real time.

Was there a time when this show was worth giving hours to?

TAKES AFTER HIS MOTHER: A quick look inside the wonderful world of parenting...

CJ (nearly three) wakes up at 5:30 and comes up to Mom and Dad's room. Mom and Dad struggle to wake up as CJ's demands escalate. Thing is, this kid NEEDS to be on the computer playing OSWALD games right away. He's emphatic. Mom and Dad get him up and running and then commit the horrible injustice of trying to have a conversation with each other. CJ spikes the computer to the floor and earns his first time-out, accompanied by much wailing and gnashing of teeth. CJ returns to the scene of the crime and, when Daddy begins talking to Mommy again, bites Daddy on the ass. Daddy shakes it off, delivers a verbal lecture, and somehow resists the urge to fling the lad by his hair into the wall. (Kidding!) When Daddy and Mommy accidentally give Mikey (3 months) some attention, CJ delivers a bite to Mikey's toe, earning time-out number two. Upon his return, as Mommy is giving CJ some verbal reinforcement of the "dont' throw the computer or bite your brother's toe" message, CJ spits at Mommy, earning time-out number three. At this point Daddy repairs to his car and heads for Starbucks, all the while thinking a martini sounds better than a latte...

SHRILL CENTRAL: I don't know much about Susan Estrich. But this exchange alone is all I need to know she's an idiot. God bless Kinsley.

TED'S HEAD: Remind me to hang myself if my son decides he wants to play football. A few weeks ago we were handed Tedy Bruschi as an archetype of male virility. Now he's having health troubles. Any chance it's related to the fact that he crashes his head into other giant men day in and day out?

All sympathy to Tedy and his family, and best wishes for a total recovery.

BTW, the fact that I'm a big boxing fan reveals what a huge dummy -- hypocrite? -- I am.

WHO KNEW TIMES TWO: It dawned on me as I read the umpteenth steroid article earlier today: You know, Canseco is the only guy that actually seems credible on all this. Of course everyone knew baseball had a big steroid problem. Of course most of us could guess who at least some of the most obvious users were. Of course there are still baseball players and football players and basketball players using steroids. How can some of these folks pretend they're shocked by all this? In the words of ARRESTED DEVELOPMENT's Gob: C'mon!

BTW, the aforementioned is the best show on TV, cable or otherwise. The Dana Carvey as Jack LaLanne-ish fitness guy plotline last week -- "Shoot me!" -- was perfectly over the top. Wonderful. Love that show.

WHERE I BE: Just woke up in Orange County (okay, I flew here yesterday, so it's not like I'm surprised) after a night of focus groups with 15-year-old girls here. I felt like I was living inside an episode of LAGUNA BEACH for a few hours. Now am headed back to Chicago for the night, then off to Long Island Thursday morning for more of the same. Unfortunately will have to work during my flights. Ah, well. At least I like the work.

HAPPY IN HEAVEN: My brother Eric wrote of my deceased dog:

I like to think he's with Bruno [note: Vladi's old running mate, also a rescued Airedale, died about three years ago] now... not quite so sore. And happy to know when to bark at the people who walk by [note: Vladi needed Bruno's leadership on many fronts]. He'll be waiting for you outside your door when you leave here as well.

If this was true...or more importantly...if you could prove it...think how much anxiety and heartache that would just sail away into the ethers. If Trisha's dad and Paul's dad and my grandparents and my uncle and all our pets and loved ones and leaders and icons were all waiting somewhere, cured and whole, my God, that would really be something. Not only would we regain our family and friends and pets, but we, too, would be able to be remade as new. It buoys me to imagine it. But alas, although I "like to think" it, as Eric wrote, I'm not necessarily inclined to *believe* it. Therein lies the rub. Therein arises the faith. Or not. Therein rests the riddle of everything.

THE HOLE THAT GRIEF MAKES: Hopefully I'm numb enough to write this without getting all slobbery again.

In a nutshell, we had to say goodbye to our faithful friend, Vladi the Dog. His end came Friday evening. It was terribly difficult.

I'm not going to write more right now, 'cause I don't feel like picking at the wound. I'm not feeling great about it. In fact I'm feeling awful.

Okay.

Two things I want to write down, though, in hopes that I won't lose them again.

The first is that I just relearned that words lack the proper shape or weight or something to fill the hole that grief makes. They're useless for that. They fly right through the void. They don't stick or settle. No words lift the hurt, patch the hurt, or hide the hurt, not even a little. That's not to say they're bad. They're just sort of nothing. Reminds me that, when consoling someone, a hug may be the height of eloquence.

The second is that I was forced to remember something I learned several years ago that is very important: Forgive everyone. Forgive everything. Start with yourself. Start right now.

Okay, maybe words can make a small difference.

MO' MONEY, MO' LAWYERS: One of my daily guilty pleasures is reading Lloyd Grove's "Lowdown" column on the NY Daily news site. This quote, from rapper Cam'ron in today's column, made me chuckle:

"You can never have too many lawyers," the 29-year-old Harlem-born rapper told Lowdown Wednesday night at Ono. "I got an entertainment lawyer, an actor lawyer, a court lawyer, and then a lawyer to watch all them, and then a lawyer to watch him!"

SOMEDAY: I need a happy image on my blog. some kind of "sun'll come up tomorrow" thing. Here's the best I could find on short notice, courtesy of my brother Casey.

RAINS, POURS: Our old dog Vladi fell down the stairs last night and can barely walk. Vet this AM. Baby Michael is now sick. Too congested to sleep much. My cold is clearly turning yellow/brown/bacterial. CJ seems mildly better. Lower fever, and cough is more productive than wheeze-based.

Why be a parent? Because it gives you the most vivid sense of gratitude towards your own parents. What looked like a normal home during my childhood must've been an overlay on all manner of complexity I never knew.

Thanks, Mom and Dad.

FAREWELL TO A GREAT MAN: Guido Regelbrugge passed away on January 30. He was my high school soccer coach (and my two brothers' coach, too), and he was my friend Paul's father. (You've seen Paul post here many times. Although our politics don't exactly align anymore, our hearts are still in the same place, we've concluded.)

Guido was a lion. He was *that* coach, *that* teacher, the one who immediately earned a superhero nickname ("Mr. R." or "Coach R.") and the respect of parents, students, and players alike. He was the adult who took young people seriously, who challenged them to exceed their own expectations by taking themselves seriously. He was not one to let the young off the hook simply because they were young. He invited us to open our ears, to learn, and to grow into ourselves in a hurry. His lot in life -- a blessing and a curse, I'm sure -- was to immediately belong to all he came in contact with. His words and gestures bred stories and mythology. Everybody had a favorite Coach R. story, if not several.

A few of my favorite memories:

Upon arriving at a rival team's home field, our coach was greeted with a loud "Guido sucks" from the opposing crowd. (So notorious was he as a coach that he actually inspired people to yell stuff like this!) After we played a great game and kicked their butt, our coach graciously stayed around and congratulated the other team and coach on their fine play. Meanwhile, we all loaded onto the bus. A few minutes later, a somber Guido boarded the bus and paused at the front. We grew silent immediately, waiting to hear what he would say. "Guido sucks!" he yelled at the top of his lungs, bursting into a huge smile. We went nuts.

Junior year I received a note in one of my high school classes. "Coach Regelbrugge would like to see you as soon as you're free." I hustled up to his room the minute the period broke. "You're a good kid. You work hard. But you will not be a starter on the soccer team next year. There are young guys who are better than you," he told me. I was crushed. I was certain I'd start my senior year, or at least I was hoping. And you know, even as I write this, I have to be honest. Crap. I knew he was right. Deep down I knew. Then he gave me hope. "If you want to be a starter, there is a way. I want you to be our goalie next year," he said to me. "You will go to camp this summer, and you will learn how to play 'keeper. You will work your butt off, and you will be our starting goalie next year. You're smart, and I trust you to play that important position." I did as he said, and he delivered. God, I'm smiling just writing this. Because I'm also remembering his speech at our awards banquet at the end of the senior season. "Scott Hess was not a great goalie. But he was a hard worker, and he gave us his all, and sometimes that's enough. I want to thank him." Pure Guido.

A tiny moment, but one I'll keep with me forever: Guido joins us during a scrimmage and manages to fake a defender to the ground and deliver a no-look pass to a rushing forward who then parks it into the goal. "The old man can still play!" he celebrated, arms extended to the heavens in triumph.

Indeed he could. And so the old man will be mourned and missed by many, including this grateful writer, who will never give up these memories, and who will always feel that Guido lives on for as long as I do.

WOE ARE US: Sick kid. Nebulizer at the doctor's office, there 'til 9:30PM. Then to the pharmacy. Finally home 'round 11PM. CJ's fever up to 103, trouble breathing, etc. Miserable. In the shower with him, in his bed, etc. We all finally passed out around 4AM. He's off for a chest x-ray this morning.

Silver lining? Michael (3 mos.) slept from 11PM until 7AM and woke up smiling and hungry.

NO BOOBS, NOT BAD: Not much not to like about this year's Super Bowl halftime show. You've got one of the most famous performers of all time. He sang his own songs. He sounded good. There were no baton twirlers or superfluous multicultural kids. There didn't seem to be any fake fans. Basically it was a front-row seat to a hot concert. Well done.

RANDOM: Buried under work and life and unable to blog much in the past few days. Sorry 'bout that. Things on my mind:

Is that Henry character on OSWALD gay? I'm thinking yes. And what about the Egberts? They say they're brothers, but one wonders. Come to think of it, Daisy is pretty butch, too. Oh, and is Fred Savage (as Oswald) trying to sing that badly, or is he truly a bad singer?

I'm also thinking the "Maestro" character on OOBI seems a bit light in his loafers, so to speak. And I love the "Grandpoo as eligible senior bachelor" motif.