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The Irish . . . and How They Got That Way – Porchlight Music Theatre – Feb. 6, 2026

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I wrongly assumed that the play, The Irish . . .  And How They Got That Way, was about the University of Notre Dame not getting picked for the recent 12-team college football playoff and announcing thereafter that it would reject any other bowl bids that might be made, which, to me, seemed antithetical to their nickname, the Fighting Irish, which was approved by the university’s president in 1927 as being “preferable to the school’s more derisive nicknames,” and with the “hope that we may always be worthy of the ideal embodied in the term.”

So, no football, but a lot of drinking, as if at a football game, unaccompanied, however, by the Irish bar classic Whiskey in the Jar. 

There were 34 other songs in whole or part, but not the Notre Dame Victory March (acknowledging, I suppose, that you can’t win if you don’t play), which Sports Illustrated, in 2019, ranked as the fourth best college fight song.

The players (I mean the cast, not the members of the football team), all of whom I have seen before, were up to their usual high standards, but I would have liked to hear more from violinist Elleon Dobias, who was a standout. 

Eureka Day – Broadway Playhouse (TimeLine Theatre Company) – February 4, 2026

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Before getting into a “review” of the play Eureka Day, I wanted to make something clear for the record. I never met or, in any way communicated with, Jeffrey Epstein.

I did, however, go to a baseball game in Oakland (the play takes place in nearby Berkeley) on the evening of June 16, 1971 when Mike Epstein (no relation to Jeffrey as far as I know) hit his third and fourth consecutive home runs, having started his streak in his last two at-bats the day before. I should add that I also got to see Vida Blue that night, in his prime, pitch a complete game (if you are old enough to remember what that is).

Getting back to Eureka Day, I would like to add that I loved the totally unrelated TV show Eureka, which is still available for streaming.

And, before I forget, given his association with the word eureka, without which the name of the school in, and title of, the play would not be as clever as it is, a shout out to Archimedes, our first known streaker, and perhaps the inspiration for the 1970’s craze, which I’m sure included Berkeley.

The play first grabs our attention for the machinations the characters, members of the Eureka Day private school board, go through trying to convince each other and themselves that they are all on the same page about their world views (we’re not fooled) and how the school should operate. The administrator, in particular, might actually hurt his back bending over backwards in his role as a mealy-mouthed conciliator.

As one might imagine, attempts to not offend fall by the wayside when the topic becomes school vaccination policies (the play is set in the school year of 2018-19, when it foresightedly premiered), highlighted by the online chat with parents that had the audience in stitches and, given the topic and the location, made me consider a possible subtitle of “Sittin’ on the Doc of the East Bay.”

Everything seemingly gets resolved, thanks in part to the parents, unlike boards I have been associated with, actually reading the by-laws, as we move into the 2019-2020 school year – what could go wrong?

We’ll Meet Again

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For those of you who rely upon me for your Doomsday Clock news, be aware that, as of this morning, it has been moved up to 85 seconds until midnight, once again setting a new record we should so proud of.

Frankly, listening to the explanation for the move in the annual announcement, I’m surprised they didn’t move it even more.

The one hope they held out was that somehow the entire population of the world would band together to make their singular voice of concern heard. I will be calling the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists with a great offer for them to buy the Brooklyn Bridge.

So, how does this affect our day-to-day lives. I’m not sure. Should I buy travel insurance? Probably not, The insurance companies probably include a clause denying coverage in the event of the end of humanity (The cockroaches will, as always, survive.).

You probably don’t want to buy the seven-minute ab workout video suggested by the serial-killing hitchhiker in There’s Something About Mary. Maybe the seven second version instead.

I, the eternal optimist, am not going to change my plans for next week, and I actually have a bunch of them, only one of which involves a possible end-of-mankind scenario. So, mostly upbeat stuff you’ll hear about from me.

I understand that Survivor 50 premieres next month. Perhaps it will contain some helpful hints. In the meantime, as Stanley Kubrick told us in 1964, we’ll meet again.

Night Crawlers

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When I started writing this blog in 2018 I did some homework (that was a first) and discovered a recommendation that posts of at least 300 words were more likely to enhance search engine optimization, which sounded like good thing.

Early on, that was one of my goals and I largely achieved it in the first two years. Over time, however, and with some causation related to the pandemic, my default state of apathy crept in and my blog lengths became much more random.

This month, however, something has gone berserk. My blog already has received almost as many nonsubscriber visits as it did in all of 2024, even though I’ve posted only one new item (things will be picking up soon).

Apparently, the bots have found me, each online night crawler (not the great Jake Gyllenhaal movie)  jumping around my site like Olympic acrobots, though, I must note, I still have never had a viewing from anyone in Botswana.

Should I be worried? How did this version of botulism arise in the Petri dish we call the Internet? What attracted them to me? Is it chemical? Has my vocabularic syntax generated some sort of pheromones? (which sounds like a horse in the Kentucky Derby or a minor character in a Shakespearean play).

Whatever the cause, it has inspired me to think bigger, ergo Bots: The Musical, using songs to be developed through the miracle of generative AI, once all the copyright lawsuits have been settled.

In the meantime, bottoms up.

What’s Past is Prologue

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I have now completed 8 years of blogging. Phew! Whose idea was this anyway?

In that time I have posted 592 pieces of my mind (who knew I had that many?), for an average of 74 per year, while attempting to avoid redundancy and trying to augment my cerebral remnants by doing Wordl, Connections, Spelling Bee and the NYT Crossword every day, not to mention, but I will, reading the daily missives from Merriam-Webster and Word Smarts.

Over those years I have had 4006 non-subscriber visitors to the site, from 59 countries (out of 195), including the U.S. (which does not yet include Greenland), one special administrative region and one organized, unincorporated territory.

I have written 160,045 words, which sounds like a lot, but they weren’t all different, and the total is still far less than that of Moby Dick, so consider yourselves lucky.

Writer’s block is a constant concern, so I’m thinking about joining a writers’ bloc for support.

I may need to expand the focus of my work as I run out of theatrical productions, concerts, museum exhibits, author events, and Lego projects to write about. Suggestions are welcome, though not necessarily taken seriously.

Goodbye 2025

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When sports announcers start giving viewers the odds on one thing or another, I turn off the sound on the television. But I’ve finally found something worth betting on – the end of the world.

According to the Online Betting Guide (olbg.com), there is, as of a few weeks ago, an 80% chance that, in January, the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists will move the Doomsday Clock closer to midnight than its current 89 seconds before the hour, which is the closest it’s ever been since first being instituted in 1947, when it was set at 11:53.

I don’t know, having not laid down any money to join a betting site, whether there are any incremental wagers that can be made on this topic. Can you bet on the amount of time the Clock might be moved closer, not just that it will be moved closer, and receive different odds?

You can, instead, not bet, but rather go to a prediction market (wink, wink) and, for example, on one site, vote yes or no, as to whether the Clock will be moved to 60 seconds or less to midnight.

Contemplating this led me to wonder whether a big move like that, akin to the 30 second moves forward in 2017 and 2018 (hmm, what do those years have in common with each other and 2025?) might lead to the world going all the way to its bitter end, a self-fulfilling prophesy. And, if it does, how does one collect on one’s bet, or prediction?

And, finally, what is the effect on the Clock of the recent 4.8 microsecond drift reported by the National Institute of Standards and Technology? Perhaps I’ll look for answers by drifting off to the nearest microbrewery. In the meantime, Happy New Year?

Chamber Music Immersive – A Holiday Special: Celebration with Vivaldi and Bach – Chicago History Museum – Dec. 16, 2025

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Violinist Philippe Quint was at it again. Accompanied by the Magellan Chamber Orchestra, the program included J. S. Bach’s Concerto for Two Violins, featuring a duet with 14-year-old prodigy Katherine Schaufenbuel, who lived up to the hype about her, and not just one or two, but all four of Vivaldi’s Seasons.

Vivaldi, himself, made an appearance to read the sonnets he had written to introduce the concertos. He might have fooled me, given his costume, wig and Italian accent, but he read the pieces in English, so I deduced that it was an actor, and a rather hammy one at that, which helped explain why, despite Quint’s urging, there were no questions for Antonio from the audience.

The evening also included an exhibit of rare, priceless instruments (actually I heard the figure 15 million dollars bandied about, though any security measures were subtle) by Chicago’s Stradivari Society.  Later, a few instruments formed the basis for Quint’s “violin tasting” (his words), wherein he successively, and successfully, played the same passage on one after the other. I couldn’t tell the difference and Quint didn’t rate them for the attendees, so I’m not sure what the point was. A wine tasting would have been more pleasing.

John C. Reilly is Mister Romantic – Steppenwolf Theatre – Dec. 5, 2025

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I’ve seen Mr. Saturday Night, Mister Roberts and now Mister Romantic, John C. Reilly’s one-man show, if you don’t count the four musicians, but you should, because they’re great.

The evening started when said musicians marched down an aisle to the stage, playing a New Orleans-type walking song. What most caught my attention was the performer who was playing the coronet with one hand, while simultaneously playing the accordion with the other. I later prided myself for this mental note when Reilly, at the end of the show, acknowledged that same skill for the audience.

Reilly, at first, was nowhere to be seen, but suspicions grew when the quartet, after reaching their destination, pulled a steamer trunk, with the words Mister Romantic on it, from stage left. Sure enough, a vaudevillian-like-appearing Reilly arose from the luggage to greet the crowd and announce that he had no memory, other than that he had to find someone who would love him forever in order to be freed from the box.

What followed was Reilly beautifully singing classics such as Dream, What’ll I Do and You Don’t Know Me, accompanied by the musicians he claimed not to know (but was pleased that they knew the same songs he did), and augmented by a lot of amusing schtick, including a fair amount of miming and interaction with the audience, with the hope of finding eternal love and never having to return to his portable home.

He added a little extra spice to the show with a rendition of Earl Okin’s “My Room,” before which he suggested that any children head to the lobby for popcorn.

His quest was not gender specific, as he walked into the audience to engage, rather closely (after asking consent), for a few minutes each, two women and two men, one of whom was me. If I were a rabid fan, I would never wash my eyebrows again.

Fall Impresario Society Soirée – Jay Pritzker Pavilion in Millennium Park – Nov. 19, 2025

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First things first. The brownies were good.

I accidentally found a different entrance to the Millennium Park Garage that I might be able to find again. Exiting was a whole different adventure that I might not be able to repeat, or want to. In fairness to me, there was some construction going on and the brownies may have affected my cognitive abilities.

Entertainment was provided by the Murasaki Duo, composed of the husband and wife team of Eric Kutz, cello and Miko Kominami, piano. They were terrific, playing selections from Nadia Boulanger and Sergei Rachmaninov.

Kutz also was something of a raconteur, my favorite story being about their son, who, when he was young, assisted the duo by being Kominami’s page turner. The son was not present and, according to Kutz, now complains that he was replaced by technology, that is, the wireless, page-turning foot pedal, a scary turn of events that not even Heinlein, Clarke or Wells could have predicted. As far as I, or AI, can tell, The International Alliance of Theatrical Stage Employees does not include a category for page turners.

The other interesting thing about the duo is the origin of their name, being an homage to Lady Murasaki (Shikibu), said by some to be the author of the world’s first novel, The Tale of Genji, in the early 11th century. At least a dozen versions (and a study guide) are available for purchase on Amazon. I’m guessing that the original copyright has run out.

Chamber Music Immersive: Charlie Chaplin’s Smile with Philippe Quint – Chicago History Museum – Nov. 18, 2025

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When I saw Philippe Quint at the Chicago History Museum in May, I mentioned what a terrific musician he is. I now would like to add, based on this latest event, that he also is creative, knowledgeable, a good storyteller, funny and joyful. Too much?

The word immersive is thrown about rather casually these days as a buzz word in describing various types of entertainment. In the sense of being interactive, or in the middle of the action (like the Production of Making Marilyn Miller I previously wrote about), this concert was not. Audience members were not part of The Matrix. They neither played instruments nor mingled with the performers while they played.

The show was, however, multimedia in nature and terrific in execution. There were photos, and some video from The Great Dictator, Limelight, The Kid, A King in New York, Monsieur Verdoux, City Lights, The Vagabond and Charlie’s New Job. Quint provided numerous Chaplin anecdotes and he and pianist Jun Cho played selections from the Chaplin movies and other pieces that related to Chaplin’s interests and friendships, for examples, music by Stravinsky and Gershwin.

As to the latter, Chosen Mitchell, a musical theater major at the Chicago College of the Performing Arts, demonstrated a wide range while singing Summertime and I Got Rhythm.

The highlight of the evening was Quint and Cho collaborating, to play live, replacing the movie’s recorded score, Brahms’ Hungarian Dance No. 5 from the barbershop scene in The Great Dictator, perfectly synched with the film. Quint, charming as always, suggested that you shouldn’t try this at home.