I made the rare mistake of taking out my contacts too early tonight.  It is my general policy to fall asleep in my contacts rather than taking them out too early.  Tonight, however, was a strange occurence.  I was going to write this post, but this awful fatigue headache came over me, and immediately I knew I was ready to fall asleep.  So I threw on my usual background noise podcast, bundled up, and closed my eyes.  Seconds later I knew that it was going to be futile.  Now, I'm left typing this post, my contact free eyes inches from the screen.  Aw fuck.  I have to put them in.  This is brutal.

What a strange night.  I'm sitting here feeling like it didn't even happen.  I don't even know what happened before it started.  I guess it was pretty much another day spent in bed, briefly broken up by the revelation that I had a record number of page views for the blog, which was a solid feeling.  And after that graph post it shot up from 55 views to 86 views by the end of the day in GMT (which I guess is like 7 pm locally...I dunno).  I don't know where these people come from, but bless them.  They've been a bright spot in a relatively shitty last couple of days.

Let me try to sum this night up as best I can.  My friend Larsen, who lives about 20 minutes from Zion calls me to find out about the coffee shop I keep writing from/about.  I tell him it's in Rogers Park, which I guess foiled his plan to go there with me, given the distance.  I tell him I'll cook up a pot if he wants to come over, to which he replies, "Aw hell no.  I don't like that straight coffee buuuullshit.  I need that foofy fag shit with whipped cream and male ejaculate."  That's a direct quote.  Swear to god.  So I tell him there's this place in Zion that we could go.  Larsen got his queer drink and graciously bought me a hot chocolate, despite my clear lack of ski gear and the mountain to use it on.

We get home and proceed to watch hours of roast footage online.  I think most people know this at this point, but there are two guys who you only see at roasts and they always kill.  Greg Giraldo and Jeff Ross.  Every time.  Just wildly offensive, filthy, often times racist humor.  And the other constant is the standard Lisa Lampanelli fat joke.  They never fail.  I implore all of you to find Ross, Giraldo, and Jimmy Kimmel at the Flavor Flav roast.  I can't embed Megavideo I don't think, otherwise I would.

After exhausting every possible roast clip, we decide to watch fucking Beethoven...one half of the Charles Grodi-thon that FOR WHATEVER REASON had been shelved until tonight.  I have a confession to make.  I am not 100% prepared to write about Beethoven.  I think I missed some major plot points while raucously making "Charles Grodin is frustrated" jokes with Larsen.  It was pretty hilarious.  There's actually a scene in which Beethoven (arguably the most clever dog in film history) actually climbs into bed with Grodin and pretends to be Bonnie Hunt.  He starts rubbing his dog body against Grodin and licking his ear.  Hahah.  I'm laughing as I write this.  None the wiser, Grodin becomes wildly aroused.  Then he delivers this bizarre line, "Honey, it's not even Saturday!"  I guess with Grodin working on "that big contract" at the office and Hunt taking care of all those kids (one of whom is the nerd from Step by Step) they just don't have the time to make love on weekdays.  And boy.  When Bonnie Hunt enters through the bedroom door and it's revealed to Grodin that he was aroused by a St. Bernard...boy does he feel awkard!  I wish there was a line like, "Honey....I thought your tongue seemed GIGANTIC!"  Sadly, you can't always get what you want.

It should be noted that at the beginning of the movie Lauren Davidson appropriately arrived with her puppy Dexter, who I'm sitting over the weekend.  Dexter is part beagle, part something smaller than a beagle which is a dangerously adorable combination.  Lauren on the other hand is 100% caucasion and while adorable in her own right is frankly out of her league in this case.  Right now Dexter is asleep on a mound of blankets.  It's almost too cute....so to bring the cute factor down a notch I want to note that I currently notice my own B.O. and my balls are sweaty and horrible.  That outta do it.

As you can tell by the 2nd poster above, part two of the Grodi-thon was the Martin Short vehicle "Clifford" and boy was it terrible.  While we had fun with Beethoven, Clifford is just bizarre and off-putting.  There were obviously times we laughed at it's strangeness, but generally speaking it just made me feel uneasy.  After watching it something came over me that is just hard to explain.  Without any previous knowledge, I was certain that not only did Roger Ebert review this film poorly, but also has it on like his worst movies ever, bar none, I want to kill myself list.  Sure enough, Clifford is featured in one of his, Hated hated hated hated hated this movie books.  I was incredibly pleased by this discovery.

Then the night was over.  Larsen left and outside of Dexter it felt as if I hadn't gotten out of bed.  All the laughs and soda pop and Grodin were quickly history.  I once again became lonely and depressed.  I ran Dexter through the desolation of a frozen Zion night.  I immediately began thinking of the usual shit.  Retrieving Caitlin...I spoke to her twice tonight.  Her pet rat died.  Interestingly, she's not my first friend with a pet rat.  She was crying.  I'm sure it was one of these situations where one thing opened the flood gates.  Death will do that and the whiskey doesn't hurt.  I want to go more than ever.

Then there's Kit.  Frustrated as I was, I still want to see her.  I guess that's not something that just goes away.  If you're reading this know that I feel the same as I did before.  I miss you.

Restless, boozeless, and alone.  Another day in bed.  Thankfully I solved that music problem I was having.  Charlie Parker.  Who knew?

Goodnight.

If and when I relapse it sure as hell won't be the old friends and haunts that get me.  I will not drink just to be the same.  But today was proof as to why people do.  Bukowski, music, and coffee raised my sunken spirits yesterday.  I was low as hell and for a night I was lifted.  Then today came and it just flat sucked.  Sober escapes are much less cunning than drunken ones.  The same songs don't always convince you you're fine.  You have to find something new, and today I couldn't find it.  I can't tell you how many times I scrolled up and down the entirety of my iPod artist list, the perfect song escaping me each time.  Booze tricks you every time.  You drink until you fall asleep.  You get up.  Go to work.  Go home.  And do it again, each time easing your troubled, racing thoughts to rest.  And it works.  It works every single time.

Frankly, it makes less sense to be sober in the basement than it does to be drunk.  I could grow a goddamn beard, bloat my belly, constantly poison the part of my mind that gives a shit, and cruise to an early death.  If you're good at shutting down, you can open yourself to the ease of eating, drinking, shitting, and jerking off.  You're fuckin right it's depressing, but that's what the booze is for.  It's hospice for the terminally alive.

But that's not what I'm being seduced by.  I've done it and it can work for a long damn time.  But fortunately for me the DT's got me so bad that I couldn't work.  They sent me back to Zion.  Zion, in turn, sent me to Madison.  Madison sent me to North Miami.  And North Miami got me sober long enough to make me realize I was tired of being average.

Now I'm back in Zion.  And after one average depressing day spent in bed, I'm already tired of being here.  To be drunk is to accept and live in the average.  Sobriety is about running from it.  To sit here for many more days like today, without the comfort of a stiff drink would be pure, unadulterated masochism.  It's left me, once again, considering the road.

On what's been nearly a nightly basis, a drunken Caitlin Burke has insisted that I pick her up in New York for her spring break.  And to be honest with you, we're not all that close.  Outside of sloppy drunken dancing on the floor of the Riviera Theater in Chicago to a set of Bright Eyes' undanceable folk/rock, we really haven't seen each other at all.  There was the subsequent, post-show makeout/dry hump session and a party here or there.  But not much else.  And really, this has me all the more intrigued.  Why the fuck not?

I need stories.  Experiences.  I need travel and new people.  New towns.  Not that there's anything wrong with the old people and towns, but it's hard to achieve momentum without motion.  Without freshness.  Outside of the obvious financial restraints, which will take some shiftiness to work around, I see no reason to not hit the road as soon as tomorrow.

Exciting, right?  We'll be in touch.

After the text referenced in the last post sent me spiraling, punch drunk into the Taco Bell drive-thru I was unsure how to make myself feel better...outside, of course, of the Grilled Stuffed Burrito I would purchase.  So I went home to find that Frozen River was done downloading.  But something about that name just felt unattractive at that moment.  It was like, "Goddamn it.  This is going to be fucking 'film'."  You know?  There's going to be nothing visceral about this.  But as I was about to reluctantly watch it anyway, I remembered that Mickey Rourke played Charles Bukowski in Barfly, which I'd never seen.  Could people possibly be seeding a torrent of it?  I checked.  Sure enough, 9 seeders.  If I could just get contributions from 5 of those seeds I could have the movie in no time.  So I queued it up and started Frozen River while it was downloading.

Boy was I right about that one.  Slooooow.  Not bad, mind you.  But slow like the Slowsky's.  I cannot believe I know the names of the fucking Comcast turtles.  And I'm posting this via Comcast internet.  I'm owned by the fucking man.

You know what?  Fuck it.  I don't care anymore.  I am no longer treating this situation with sensitivity.  Having feelings for Kit is like an adolescent's relationship with the Northern Motel 6 outdoor swimming pool in September.  Dad's toting the family around in the station wagon and he pulls into the 6 for the evening.  The kids are high fiving because it's 80 degrees outside and there's a big sign advertising the pool.  They get into their suits and sprint barefoot on the warm cement sidewalk towards the pool.  And upon arriving what do they find?  The gate is locked, displaying a menacing "No Trespassing" sign.  The pool is drained.  There will be no cannonballs.  No hand stands.  And no Marco fucking Polo.  The good times had before are a memory, taunting them in their current dejected now.

"So guess who's coming to stay with me this weekend," the text reads. "Dylan.  This should make for quite an interesting weekend."

"That's great news," I replied.  "One thing is certain.  I will never understand you...What an odd thing to tell me."

Dylan is Kit's... I dunno, something, from college, and they're apparently getting together to "iron things out."  He found my journal and contacted me after stalking her through google searches.  Not creepy at all, I know.  We proceeded to have some e-mail exchanges, which to this point I've graciously avoided posting despite them being, I feel, some of my better writing.

I've always had an extraordinarily big heart when it comes to Kit.  We spent nearly every second of free time at rehab together and I got to know her better than most.  Without getting into anything about her personal situation, I came out of rehab feeling like, I will love her no matter what.  So after my jaded and jealous reply, I sent a couple texts apologizing for my overreaction.  No response.  I called.  No answer.  She's been through so much in her life and to see her recover would mean a lot to me.  And it still would.  And I'm still there for her should she come to me.  But this whole ambiguous, intense, more than friends but still single thing...I just don't think I can do it anymore.  The pool's been closed too many times.  I'm tired of being let down.

With the last three paragraphs bouncing around through my head, you can understand why Frozen fucking River isn't exactly appealing at this moment.  So after about an hour of that I check on Barfly.  It was at about 90% complete, but for the purposes of this post it was finished and I immediately put it on.  Oh yes.  Much better.  Exactly what I needed.  The film starts with Bukowski getting his ass kicked by this macho bartender, Eddy, who he hates.  And we find out this happens over and over.  Bukowski runs his mouth off to the guy and then gets his ass kicked (and seemingly doesn't care).  Then one night he meets this drunk named Wanda and they start sorta-kinda dating.  Then the unthinkable happens when Bukowski enters the bar to meet Wanda.  I don't have the film in front of me so this dialogue is not 100% accurate.

Bartender: "Your girl left with Eddy."

Bukowski: "What?"

Bartender: "Eddy came in with a fifth of whiskey and your girl went home with him.  What're you gonna do?"

Bukowski (his face tenses up.  you can tell he wants to punch a hole in the wall...then he relaxes): "Give me a scotch and water," he cooly announces, seemingly unaffected.

YES YES YES YES YES!  So perfect.  SO perfect.  As soon as that dialogue happened I was on cloud 9.  I was ready to party.  So I did.  I stopped the movie right there.  And don't let anyone tell you you need booze to party.  This high was as good as any.  I couldn't find a bottle opener, so I took a pair of huge fucking pliers to the basement.  I cracked open a Clausthaler NA, put on my headphones, and cranked "Gimme Some Truth" by Lennon up as loud as it could go.  Pay no mind to the topic of the song.  Angry Lennon is fucking infectious.

I'M SICK AND TIRED OF HEARING THINGS FROM UPTIGHT, SHORT-SIGHTED, NARROW-MINDED  HYPOCRITES!

Oh yeah.  Follow that up with Dylan (coincidentally).  From a Buick 6.  Highway 61 Revisited (the song).  I'm flailing around, harnessing that stage energy, my unzipped hoody whipping around behind me.  Coffee heating me up.  Clausthaler cooling me down.  I've got all the power back.  I feel good again.  And I carry it into this post.

Caitlin Burke called me several times tonight from a New York bar.  Every cigarette break was another call.  In the spirit of not giving a shit, I think it's time to officially announce I like Caitlin.  She's a flighty drunk who likes Bukowski and Tim Kasher.  Of course I fucking like her.  I like her voice too.  I feel a tickle in my throat when she speaks.  The same feeling you get from an overwhelmingly sweet, overfrosted piece of birthday cake.  So fuck all of you who think it's weird if I like her or talk to her.  I'm done caring.

So what have we learned tonight?  There's too much fun and good in this world to be mired in your depressive fucking emotions.  Why on earth am I going to sit around feeling down when I have Bob Dylan and John Lennon on my ipod and Caitlin Burke's voice on the other end of a drunk dial?  Correction: several drunk dials.  Goddamn am I pumped.  I want to run the Philly Art Museum stairs like Rocky right now.  Now turn your sound up as loud as it goes, watch these videos, and go fuck yourself.

Zion-Benton Public Library has designed the hot spot service to reduce the chances of "hacking".   However, the parties acknowledge that security errors and hacking are an inherent risk associated with wireless Internet use and hot spot services.  For that reason, you expressly agree that you knowingly assume such risk, and further agree to hold Zion-Benton Public Library harmless from any claim or loss arising out of, or related to, any such event of hacking or other unauthorized use or access into your computer.

I agreed to these terms without the presence of my attorney.  I hope this doesn't bite me in the ass when the middle aged black dude across the room "checking his e-mail" covertly eases past my 325 bit encrypted firewall lair and implants a deadly trojan horse into my system files.  Call me reckless if you must.  I, however, would prefer to think of myself as more of a free spirit.

You're probably wondering why I'm at the Zion-Benton Public Library.  And by the way, if anyone knows what the fuck "Benton" is, please let me know.  There's a Zion-Benton High School.  A Zion-Benton Library.  The High School's mascot is the fucking "Zee Bee."  I've yet to figure out what or where Benton is.  As soon as I care enough (which could easily be never) I will solve this mystery.  Now, on to why I'm here.  It's a short story really.  I couldn't handle pops this afternoon.  I left my phone in my jacket pocket on vibrate when I got in from Pressure last night and when I woke up at 3 this afternoon there were 7 missed calls and 2 voicemails, from either dad or medical collectors.  The first message was alerting me that he hadn't received his tax return, which was due to him yesterday.  The second message was something along the lines of, "EITHER GET YOUR PHONE OUT OF THE CAR OR TAKE IT OFF OF VIBRATE!"  Oy.  No thanks to that.

This place is ridiculous.  I know I say that about a lot of places, but I think that's because a lot of places are ridiculous.  I'm sitting 4 feet away from six revolving shelves of romance novels.  Listen to some of these titles.  "Finding Dr. Right."  "Penelope & Prince Charming."  "One Kiss From You."  "Mistress of Fortune."  "Lover's Lane."  The list goes on an on.  And the covers are even better.  I'm gonna see if I can find some.

I love that first one.  That guy is such a stud.  You don't fuck with guys who tuck their plain white t's into their 90's jeans.  I think I'm gonna be that guy for halloween.  Perhaps with the addition of the eye patch in book #2 and the cape or whatever the fuck that is in book #3.  The real beauty in all of this is that this place doesn't have like...Kerouac.  You can get "Her Christmas Protector" or the latest issue of "Outside" magazine, but "On the Road"?  Not so much.  They even have North Shore Magazine.  The shitty magazine for shitty people.  I had a stint doing telemarketing for North Shore Magazine, attempting to get elderly folks in like Antioch to order subscriptions.  For those of you that don't know...there is no fucking shore anywhere near Antioch.  But I had to lie to these poor bastards and suggest we're NOT JUST printing stories about mansion homes, mutual funds, and the best and most expensive things the money they don't have can buy.  And you wonder why I'm choosing not to work...

Everyone Loves ZBistro

Everyone, including my little homey Darius.  I posted this to emphasize the ridiculous nature of this place.  Don't they think bistro is a bit of a grandiose term for a coffee maker and a microwave.  This bistro appears to be smaller than the kitchen in my brother's efficiency.

Whatever.  I'm in a bad mood now.  I just received a text that's left me jealous and bitter.  I'm a fucking idiot.  Why I invest any emotion whatsoever into a fragile non-relationship is beyond me.  Well no.  That's not true.  It's undoubtedly related to my mother.  But that's another topic for another day.

I'm gonna go use my last $5 on a burrito and find another place to sit.

I want to start this write up by saying I was completely unfamiliar with the Mickey Rourke story going into this film. I was considering doing a straight sort of review, but after watching the following video I couldn't help but mention that you can't help but root for a guy like him. His seems to be one of those stories of a guy with personal demons who's done countless dick things to countless people. Burned a lot of bridges. Alienated himself. But everyone sort of knew that deep down, somewhere inside of him was this kind-hearted softy who had a lot of love to give, but couldn't get past his self-imposed barriers. The kind of guy who you really want to see at his best, because when he is he's remarkably fun to have around. Granted, I was never actually aware that he had left the scene, but it's great to see him back nonetheless.

The Wrestler is the story of Randy "The Ram" Robinson (Rourke). A wrestler well past his prime, Robinson, being something of a legend, still garners great respect and admiration despite smaller venues, limited salary, and part-time status. When not performing he works in the warehouse of a supermarket under an extremely sardonic supervisor named Wayne (Todd Barry). I just wanted to name drop Barry as he's one of my favorite comedians, and I was stunned to see him in an acting role. Despite his meager life, confined to a trailer park home, the Ram is remarkably happy-go-lucky. He lives for the ring. He's an elder statesman for the younger wrestlers and a hero to his fans. In his personal life he found himself in a budding sort of non-relationship with a guarded older stripper named Cassidy (Marisa Tomei). When I say non-relationship I mean they're not dating but at the same time are seemingly more than just dancer/client. Our first introduction to their relationship is when Randy chases away disrespecting VIP clients. Long story short, the Ram's life ain't so bad.

That is until he suffers a post-match heart attack in the locker room of the show's venue, largely due to the performance enhancing drugs he takes to remain strong and energized at his old age. Having just performed bypass surgery, his jerky non-wrestling fan doctor insists that he retire from the sport. Naturally, Randy is crushed. He's left having to figure out a life without wrestling. When the void opens, Randy is left defenseless against his past fuck ups. He must cope with the fact that he has no love in his life. Without wrestling he's merely an estranged single father living in a trailer park. The second half of the film takes us through his attempt to reconnect with his daughter Stephanie (Evan Rachel Wood) and his push for a more serious relationship with Cassidy. I guess any more would be a spoiler, so I'll leave it at that.

It's another winner. I loved this movie. What's been so pleasing is how NOT Hollywood these films have been. It gives me a great deal of satisfaction to see shit NOT work out sometimes (or does it?). We're big boys and girls. We understand that a film that evokes emotion in us is a good film. Happiness, sadness, anger, disgust. If we're reacting in the way the filmmaker wants us to react, it's fucking working.

Rourke was amazing in this role, but everyone who's read anything about this film knows that already. I'm not sure if Aranofsky (the director) had Rourke in mind from the start, but it seems the progression of the story sort of mirrors his life in a way, at least for awhile. And like real life, you really get this portrait of an amazingly likeable guy who has some demons and fucks some shit up, but ultimately you absolutely care for his well-being.

An aggressive non-wrestling fan, I found myself on the edge of my seat, crossing my fingers, desperately wanting to see Randy convert his final "Ram Jam" (his signature finishing move). The film really made you respect professional wrestlers. On the surface you just see these roided out, scantily clad meat heads basically performing extreme choreography. It's kinda gay, really. But the toll that the performances take on these guys bodies is just ridiculous, and frankly saddening. You think back to the Chris Benoit murder-suicide, likely caused by steroid induced, out of control emotions. And you watch this movie. And it's like, my god, a lot of these guys are sacrificing their lives to do this job. They're giving their entire selves to this profession. The pressure to use drugs to stay atop your game has to be MUCH greater than your regular athlete. Wrestlers are SUPPOSED to be super-human. And the only thing getting them through the pain and anguish (other than money) is hearing the roar of the crowd...knowing that they are giving happiness to so many people. The film did a fantastic job of painting this picture.

It should also be noted that Marisa Tomei was terrific as well. As an aging stripper/mom, she had so many conflicting emotions about her relationship with Robinson and her profession in general. She liked him, but was insecure. What man sincerely meets a stripper and wants to be involved in anything but fantasy? She's guarded, but lonely. Tomei really pulled off the emotional back and forth with ease. And my god, she's 44 and smokin' hot. What a bod. And pierced nipples. I'm getting turned on just writing this. Rourke was obviously jacked too. I shouldn't only give my superficial love to the females.

But damn.

The Wrestler was on par with the other films that I gave 9's out of 10. However, I'm giving it 8 out of 10 championship belts. The Ram craps on Kurt Cobain and the grunge era in general, which frankly offended my sensibilities. Know that this has no effect when it comes to my pick for best picture. That said, before I wrote this I was getting my ass thoroughly kicked by Pearl Jam's "Vitalogy" and thought, "Who doesn't like this shit?" He could've at least said something like, "While I respect Kurt Cobain as a songwriter, and the importance of the grunge era in general, my personal preference leans more towards 80's hair metal." Asshole.

NEXT FILM: Frozen River! I'm told Lindsey likes this one. I know Bodi was looking forward to my take. I respect the importance of my next review and I will treat it with the care it deserves. Good day.

And the pendulum doesn't swing for passion
And the even horror can't make those stubborn hands freeze
But sometimes just a soft light lit in a bedroom
Can bring a tired traveler to his knees

I'm at Pressure and thank god.  I have 2.5 hours til closing and by god I am going to use all of it.  I just got off the phone with my mother.  Her voice was deep and haunting.  Think Jason Robards in Magnolia under the care of hospice, his speech slowed by morphine.  Voice cracked.  Half-dead.  This was worse than usual.  My general annoyance was nil.  I was mesmerized.  Captivated by the sorrow and hopelessness.  Gone was the usual drunken stubborness.  She was not defensive and I was not angry.  Just morbid acceptance.  The Sublime song "Pool Shark" comes to mind.  "I can shake, but I can't breathe.  Take it away, but I want more and more.  One day I'm gonna lose the war."  This was a woman ready to wave the white flag of surrender.  Part of me would be surprised if she lives.  Part of me surprised if she dies.  And Brooks Thomas wrote that God is the cure.  You won't find me on my knees in the cathedral on Sunday, but for the first time in my life I know he's right.

And speaking of Brooks- someone who I haven't seen in person in I want to say 5-7 years- he's actually one of the few people I actually feel a connection with these days.  I've made the unfortunate mistake of thinking I was going to actually meet people at parties or bars during my tenure in sobriety.  I go out and I see this blankness on all the young faces.  It's no wonder I was shitfaced all the time.  It seems people like to have punchy conversations about the shit they like, be it music, film, or pop culture.  They announce their preferences loud and proud.  And they're very pretty and trendy and young.  Doing nothing wrong.  But to find wit, subtlety, and reasonable volume is to find a missing contact lens in the Atlantic.  Mark Hoppus was right.  I guess this is growing up.

The thing that I haven't told you about sobriety is that you actually get to experience the goddamn lows in all of their glory.  You have to provide your own relief, confusing as that can be.  Four months ago I would be pleasantly deep in a bottle of whiskey or wine, lost in an aim conversation, Simon Joyner crying through my speakers.  Don't tell me that's not relief.  It is.  If I didn't get to experience the day after so goddamn much, I'd be there right now.  Trust me.  But I did and I'm not.  I'm lonely.  The connections we have with people are feelings.  Logic and commonality play second fiddle.  It's about looking someone in the eye and knowing something.  I'm not sure what...but it's there.  And I'm just not having that when I'm out anymore.  Not with new people and not even with my friends.  And when you can't find that life becomes a series of situations that you tolerate, fulfillment dwelling somewhere in neighboring apartments and towns.

I do find it with Kit.  Unfortunately I can never seem to FIND Kit.  And I find it in AA meetings, believe it or not.  But my relationships with those people are in their infancy.  I'm in limbo and it's frightening.  Crowds are more lonely than isolation.  And isolation is isolation.  I watched a man die in traffic and I believe with every fiber of my being that I'm witnessing the deliberate suicide of my mother.

It's got me thinking of the road.  After all there's nothing it can't heal.  I'm considering trips I would never consider.  To the east coast to retrieve a lost drunken soul.  To Mexico for my cousin's wedding.  To Coachella.  Motion may be my last acceptable escape.  Pursuit.  I know there's something out there that's not this.

1. Frost/Nixon (2008)
2. The Da Vinci Code (2006)
3. Cinderella Man (2005)
4. The Missing (2003/I)
5. A Beautiful Mind (2001)
6. How the Grinch Stole Christmas (2000)
7. Edtv (1999) 
8. Ransom (1996)
9. Apollo 13 (1995) 
10. The Paper (1994)
11. Far and Away (1992)
12. Backdraft (1991)