On Actors, Doctors and Getting a Fucking Lecture from the One and Fucking Only Brian Dennehy

I got a lecture from Brian Dennehy over the weekend. How ridiculously awesome is that?

It all started with a second slippery spill. Just as with the last one, I fell out from under myself while doing laundry and landed squarely on my upper back, knocking the breath right out of my chubby frame. This fall was witnessed by two of my neighbors who stood over me asking if I need an ambulance, their concern growing with each second I was unable to breathe and thus unable to speak. When I was finally able to croak out that I was fine, they went off to do their own laundry and I crawled through an icy puddle to dry land.

Hours later I was giving a standing ovation for a thoroughly superb production of Eugene O’Neill’s Desire Under the Elms starring the mesmerizing Carla Gugino and Tony Award-winning actor Brian Dennehy. As gripping as the production was, however, it was not nearly enough to make me forget the dull ache in my back. Infanticide is tragic and all, but it’s got nothing on slamming your back into the ground.

Following the show I was ushered backstage to meet the one and only Mister Brian Dennehy himself. This was all thanks to a reporter friend of mine who is never afraid to ask for anything. And so, just moments after drooling over Pablo Schreiber’s naked ass on stage, I was taken into the bowels of the theater and shown to Brian Dennehy’s dressing room.

We shook hands with the man and he offered us a seat. He then took a seat himself so he could put on his shoes and socks. I was in the presence of a barefoot Brian Dennehy.

There were two chairs to be had. One was a simple folding chair. The other was a little more plush. My friend offered me the nicer of the two, commenting on my bad back.

“You always have back problems?” Brian Dennehy barked at me as he aimed a tiny remote control at his iPod dock, trying to lower the volume.

“No,” I responded. “I slipped on some ice. It’s a hazard of living in Chicago in the winter.”

“You don’t fuck around with your back,” Brian Dennehy spat at me. “Get yourself to a fucking doctor. I’m fucking serious.” I’d been in the presence of the man for less than two minutes and already I was being treated to what appeared to be the unbridled gruffness that is Brian Dennehy.

The rest of my short time with Brian Dennehy went much the same way. He regaled us with tales about the fucking economy. He claimed not to know anything about the fucking set for the fucking play he is in. He told us how he didn’t understand why everyone put so much fucking nudity in their fucking plays these days. And while he respected Carla Gugino for wanting to be a “real actress,” he couldn’t wrap his mind around how someone as fucking hot as her didn’t just go out and make a bunch of fucking blockbuster movies.

It’s was all pretty fucking brilliant.

With the sudden announcement that he had to go, Brian Dennehy began to usher us out of his dressing room. “Get to a fucking doctor,” he growled at me once more. “Don’t fuck with your back. You fuck with your back and you’ll end up fucked up forever.”

We scurried from the room, passing Carla Gugino and Pablo Schreiber. I wanted to compliment her on her heart-wrenching performance and I wanted to compliment him on his delicious derriere, but I thought better of it. I figured I needed to get out of Dodge before Brian Dennehy came chasing after me with a whole new slew of f-bombs.

Brian Dennehy may be one brilliant actor, but he’s also one pretty fucking awesomely intimidating old dude.