Catherine O’Hara possessed one of the rarest gifts in comedy: she could make an audience laugh without ever asking for it. Her performances were never about punchlines or attention, but about belief—total, unwavering belief in who a character was, no matter how misguided, vain, or exquisitely awkward that character might be. She died Friday at the age of 71, leaving behind a body of work that didn’t just entertain, but instructed.
Tributes poured in immediately from collaborators and admirers across generations—actors, writers, and comedians who understood that O’Hara was not merely funny, but foundational. She helped define a mode of comedy that trusted the audience to catch up, that allowed silence to do its work, and that valued character over commentary.
For sketch performers and writers of a certain stripe—myself included—Catherine O’Hara was formative. During my years performing and writing sketch comedy with No Prisoners, her influence was omnipresent, even when unspoken. Unlike my own performances—where volume, speed, and desperation too often crept in—she modeled a style of comedy that trusted character over cleverness and restraint over noise. In the sketch room, we talked about that ideal constantly, even as we routinely failed to achieve it. Watching her work taught me that the strongest comic choice is often the quietest one—something I understood intellectually long before I ever managed to pull it off.
O’Hara’s work in Christopher Guest’s ensemble films--Waiting for Guffman, Best in Show, and A Mighty Wind—felt, at the time, like something entirely new. In retrospect, they feel inevitable, as if comedy had simply been waiting for someone patient enough to get out of its way.
Those films were master classes in tone and generosity. No one was trying to win a scene. No one was winking at the audience. The humor arose from people who cared deeply about things that mattered almost exclusively to them—and that sincerity made everything funnier. More importantly, it made it human. Those movies shaped my writing by reinforcing a principle I still believe: if you take your characters seriously enough, the audience will laugh without being told to.
What set Catherine O’Hara apart was her refusal to condescend. She never mocked her characters, even when they were delusional or absurd. She played them as if their inner lives were rich, fragile, and worth protecting. That empathy gave her performances a strange durability. Years later, the jokes still land, but what lingers is something quieter: recognition. You don’t just laugh—you remember people you’ve known, versions of yourself you’ve outgrown, and longings that comedy rarely treats with respect.
O’Hara’s influence extends far beyond any single role or genre. She helped normalize a kind of comedy rooted in observation rather than aggression, collaboration rather than ego. For writers and performers working in small rooms with folding chairs and big hopes, she was proof that subtlety wasn’t weakness—that restraint, in the right hands, could be devastatingly funny.
Her death leaves a genuine absence, not just in film and television, but in the creative lives of those who learned from her example without ever meeting her. She taught us that comedy could be humane, that ensembles matter, and that the loudest laugh is not always the best one.
Catherine O’Hara didn’t chase attention. She earned trust. And for generations of performers trying—and often failing—to live up to that standard, her work remains both a guide and a reminder of what’s possible when comedy begins with belief.

A billion dollars to join DJT’s exclusive new scam, The Board of Peace, and there isn’t even a pickleball court. I have decided to get in on the action, announcing my own exclusive club, The Peace Club. We do happen to have a pickleball court, exercise bikes, multiple Stairmasters, and even a spin class for the ladies. Please send fifty dollars, cash only, in care of this website and, in less than two weeks, I will send you the location of your nearest 24-Hour Fitness. When entering, just tell them that you are a member in good standing of the Peace Club and they will let you in. Offer good only on Sundays after 4 pm. Please, no guests.
Well, so what else is going on in the news? Oh, yeah — the NEW American Civil War is now in its opening days to mostly bad reviews. On the road tryouts are currently in Minnesota but Trump promises to bring it to your town soon. Fox News has declared it a “Masterpiece” and says, “It could possibly run forever.” 
Yes, it seems American citizens are not free to wander freely in Minnesota without danger of being shot multiple times in the face by masked fascists — or at least, federal immigration enforcement agents have recently been involved in fatal shootings in Minneapolis, sparking protests and intense political conflict. On January 24, 2026, federal agents fatally shot a 37-year-old Minneapolis resident named Alex Pretti during an enforcement action, and that followed the controversial January 7 shooting of Renée Good by an ICE agent. These incidents have prompted widespread protests, criticism of federal tactics, and calls for investigations from local leaders, while federal authorities maintain they were acting in self-defense. 
I have 9 months until Martial Law on the brackets. What's your bet?
Just a note: Remember, Dick’s no longer sells weapons to protect yourselves so I am afraid you may have to go elsewhere. My advice is to follow the advice of the Viet Cong and begin building some tunnels. Think of it as some sort of hellish game, a real-life Minecraft that none of us will be escaping from anytime soon.
Good luck, stay safe, and remember we are only 283 days, 6,792 hours, and 407,520 minutes away. For God’s sake, mark it in your calendars and make sure you are there. Oh, yes — be prepared to stand in line.

Your times may vary depending on when you’re reading this and what time zone you are in.
Stay safe, America!

My first encounter with The Greatest Story Ever Told was at the Hollywood Cinerama Theatrejust off of Sandy Boulevard in Portland Oregon. I was eleven years old in 1965, and all I really remember about it was that it starred David McCallum from The Man from U.N.C.L.E. Oh—and I also remember it had cameos by Ed Wynn and John Wayne. It was breathtakingly pretty to look at. Other than that, I don’t recall being all that impressed. I was more of a King of Kings guy—Jeffrey Hunter, blue-eyed Jesus.
 
And yet, somehow, the movie stuck with me. Alfred Newman’s haunting score lingered, as did those vast vistas—filmed not in the Holy Land, but right here in the good old U.S. of A.
 
So when the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences announced that it was premiering a newly restored version of The Greatest Story Ever Told, introduced by none other than Guillermo del Toro and producer George Stevens Jr., I was intrigued. A fan of George Stevens—and of film restoration in general—I was eager to see what all the fuss was about.
 
I was not disappointed.
 
In about twenty minutes, del Toro managed to put the film into perspective. This is a deeply religious work filtered through the lens of the mythic American Western. Distinct and original, it is a sincere, almost defiant attempt to make sense of a chaotic world. Stevens had witnessed the horror of war firsthand and was among the first Americans to arrive at Dachau. This film is a direct result of that experience—his meditation on what human beings are capable of, for better and for worse.
 
The restoration is stunning. The vistas of Nevada, Arizona, and Utah are nothing short of magnificent. The film is flawed, yes—but it is also breathtakingly brilliant, from the opening title sequence to the resurrection scene. And thanks to the thoughtful introduction by a director who, among his fans, has achieved something close to rock-star status, I can now appreciate a film that an eleven-year-old simply couldn’t.

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"Into the mud, scum queen."

Of all the social media platforms, the one that comes closest to mud wrestling would have to be Elon Musk’s X. And, for the record, I use the term mud very loosely, as just about any sort of mammal excrement seems a far better term for wading through what happens there every day. What once was a platform for connection has now become a microcosm of America, discourse replaced with profanity, accusations, and name-calling. Where discourse still exists on other platforms, it thrives on X.
I mistakenly reactivated my account, taking the advice that it would be helpful for my career. All it really did was make me angry. Every day, bots masquerading as human beings (and most likely vice versa) spew out such hatred that it can only inspire more of the same. It makes you kind of wonder what Truth Social is like.
So, in order to preserve my sanity, I decided to deactivate once again. This time, for my sake and sanity, I hope it sticks.
Goodbye and good luck.