Today, on a whim, I asked my fiancée to join me for a matinee of “Mickey 17,” the new film by Bong Joon Ho. Like “Parasite” and “Snowpiercer” and so much else of Ho’s work, “Mickey 17” turns out to be both a socially concerned dark comedy that portrays the awfulness of some human traits, and a highly entertaining movie. If you can imagine a future Donald Trump (played by Mark Ruffalo) asserting himself as the leader of the first colony we send to a distant planet, you can extrapolate much of what’s made manifest by this plot.
Afterward, we walked to a nearby ramen house for a leisurely dinner and to talk about the movie. We stopped in later at Republic of Pie, site of our probably third date, almost two years ago, and ate apple pie and played Uno and I had a latte.
After all this time, over four hours total, K. began to wonder if her car might have gotten ticketed. She’d parked in a free parking spot, but was now over the hourly limit. As we approached her car in the dim light, I saw a scrap of paper tucked under her windshield wiper, and K. moaned. But it wasn’t a ticket. Instead, it said this:
We looked the car over, but there was no damage. Not even the slightest.
The biggest impression made was, instead, the one made by the note. How refreshing and unexpected in 2025.
In the movie, Ruffalo’s character, a failed celebrity Congressman who somehow becomes a bigger celebrity in his electoral failure and soon finds a larger way to be the grasping tyrant he’s so suited for, utterly lacks any civility or decency. And meanwhile giving lip service to the members of a religion that worships him. Were we not already all too familiar with a real-world example of this, I’d say the character is more caricature than person. But we sadly know better, don’t we?
It was a small relief to see that it wasn’t a ticket K. had gotten, but more of a joy: an honest, thoughtful note, a note from a kind stranger who, like most people, wants to do the right thing, and who on some level knows that we’re all connected and we’re all in this together and he’s better if we’re civil and decent.
I don’t want to tell you the ending of “Mickey 17.” I want you to see it. Its message will remind you that we only lose all if we give up, if we surrender to our base instincts, to the terrible examples set by the worst among us. Eventually, the film seems to say, no matter how impossible it seems or how far away to consider, self-serving sociopaths lose and the considerate people prevail.
At a little dinner gathering last week, I asked the other people at my table what they thought about Gene Hackman’s death. It had been reported that the two-time Oscar winner had been found dead in his home at age 95, under what looked like mysterious circumstances: his wife, 30 years younger, found dead in another room and with pills scattered about, a family dog found dead in a closet while two others were alive elsewhere, the front door ajar.
To a person, they said, “Who’s Gene Hackman?”
Gene Hackman, star of I-couldn’t-even-tell-you-how-many movies that I’ve seen. One hundred and one film credits, two Oscars as I said, indelible performances in “Bonnie and Clyde,” “Unforgiven,” “Mississippi Burning,” “Crimson Tide” and so many others including, yes, “The Poseidon Adventure.”
That’s who Gene Hackman is. Was.
But being in their 20s, they didn’t know, no matter how famous Gene Hackman was or had been. They said he sounded great, that they’d have to check out a movie or two of his. When I mentioned “The Royal Tenenbaums,” which I haven’t seen, someone said, “Oh! He was the dad, right?”
Probably 20 years ago, I asked my children who Bob Hope was. For those who may not recall, Bob Hope was one of the biggest stars of the 20th century, a star of radio, film, talk shows, USO tours, and interminably awful “comedy” specials of my youth. When he was about 147 years old, I came across him after hours in a supermarket near my house. Here’s where I should mention that Mr. Hope lived in Toluca Lake, a glitzier area that abuts Burbank, California, where I live in a house directly under the flightpath of what’s more recently known as Hollywood Burbank Airport, but which for years was known as Bob Hope Airport, and which to this day features a large bas-relief sculpture of Bob Hope on one of its towers, and which still has a sign with another bas relief of Bob greeting you as you enter the terminal.
So of course when I asked my children, “Who was Bob Hope?” they answered seriously, “He has that airport.”
And who was, more than any other person, the voice of the 20th century? Bing Crosby is widely recognized as the most-recorded, and most-heard, voice. My kids don’t know who that was, either, and neither do the young people I was dining with last week, just as I struggle to learn more about Flo Rida, Megan Thee Stallion, Bad Bunny, and others, and wonder why they have cartoon names.
So the point is: Fame is fleeting. Moreso in an age when broadcast one-size-fits-all news is dead, and we select the news we’re consuming, and it selects us through its algorithms and targeting.
I share all this as setup because there’s an element of Gene Hackman’s death that I’m not seeing anyone else writing about: the shame of Alzheimer’s. And it’s a shame that no one is looking at it. And it’s a shame in this case compounded by fame.
The reports from the coroner’s office and the local police agree that this was the likeliest scenario: Betsy Arakawa, who was Gene Hackman’s wife and caretaker, died in their house from hantavirus, which sadly left the addled Mr. Hackman to fend for himself as best he could for about a week, until he too died. That is a tragedy in itself. It’s made manifest by their seclusion: They seem to have had no visitors, until finally a maintenance worker came by and discovered no one answering the door.
If you’ve ever known anyone with Alzheimer’s, you know part of what’s going on here: The person with Alzheimer’s has been hidden from others.
For about 20 years, an older gentleman named Ken was one of my closest friends. My family and friends and I really grew to love him. I’d pick him up and bring him over to our parties, or take him out to lunch, or a group of us would get together to see a movie or a play or go out for a drink. This went on through his 70s, and 80s, and into his early 90s. The last time I saw him was two years ago last month, at his 95th birthday party, which his children announced as a sort of going-away party for Ken — who would still be living in his condo, now with his adult son, but who wouldn’t be taking visitors any longer. Ken, whose beloved wife had died unexpectedly about 10 years earlier, was starting to repeat things — not too frequently, I thought, but no doubt I wasn’t seeing him as often as his kids were — and so his children were rather clear that this was his farewell party. There’s been no contact since. I keep checking the obits to see if Ken is still on this mortal plane, and our mutual friend Bridget reached out to Ken’s daughter last year and got another reassurance that we’d be informed when Ken leaves us, but for us, he’s already left, and I miss him.
Of course, with Alzheimer’s, if it’s progressed as they feared, he’s already left.
I could see how much Ken’s children loved him, and I know what a difficult decision this sort of thing is for families. I also remember Ronald Reagan’s family shutting him away — because he was a public figure, and no one close to him wanted to see his image tarnished.
In March of last year, Gene Hackman and his wife went out for lunch to a seafood restaurant in Albuquerque, New Mexico, where they lived. Of course, someone recognized him and took photos and sold them to TMZ. (I’m not going to link to them here, but the site has excitedly run them again, given the recent news of Mr. Hackman’s death.) He’s unrecognizable as the person we know — of course, because he was then a frail 94-year-old man walking with a cane and clothed in the drab attire of most elderly white men: ball cap, saggy jeans, faded loose button-down shirt. His body language in the photos radiates confusion.
I think those photos are part of why the Hackmans had no visitors. They show a great man, a man of supreme accomplishment, diminished in a way we don’t want to see, and in a way certainly his loved ones don’t want him seen. And so he was hidden away, having learned the lesson of the previous year when a photographer cashed in on his plight.
The Stoics, most importantly Epictetus and Marcus Aurelius, caution us that fame isn’t worth pursuing. It’s fleeting, yes, and costly. Fleeting because it may not even last through your lifetime; think of all the child stars abandoned by the side of fortune’s road. Costly because chasing it is beside the point: The point should be in your work, not in gaining flimsy recognition by people you don’t know.
Given the nature of his demise, Gene Hackman’s ending will now always be part of his legacy. There’s no undoing that except through the mercy of time, as the facts of who Gene Hackman was slip further and further into the past, leaving only new discoveries from fresh faces stumbling onto one of his movies: “Wow! Who’s he? He’s terrific!”
When you read history of the classical era, you encounter wonderful epithets like this one, about a coddled philosopher during the reign of Marcus Aurelius: “…this scrimshanking, duty-dodging exponent of hypertrophied egotism….”
I’ve been going to my barber Ed for a couple years now. He’s a likable guy who does a good job. In the time he’s been my barber, I’ve learned about his ex-wife, various old girlfriends, his favorite music and movies, and his somewhat misspent youth — in which, he told me, a teacher spared him the miseries of greater responsibilities in adulthood by advising him to go to barber school, where if you were good you could do okay.
I’ve been going to see Ed usually every three weeks, sometimes four. He told me that he’s surprised that my hair grows so fast, and that I have a strong healthy head of hair.
I last saw him at the end of the holiday season. I know this because I wanted that haircut to tide me over during my weeklong trip to Costa Rica at the beginning of January. So really, I was due for another haircut two weeks ago, but I didn’t have time.
Yesterday I called the barbershop where Ed and three other barbers have been cutting hair for years to make an appointment. One of the other barbers answered.
“I’m calling to make an appointment,” I said.
“Of course. Do you have a barber here?” he said.
“Ed,” I said.
There was a slight pause.
“I’m sorry to inform you, but Ed passed away.”
At first, I thought this was a joke. Truly. Barbers are known for joking around, and this sounded like a variation of “Ed’s dead,” which is the basis of lots of songs, movies, books, and so forth. Look it up. (And here’s a link to the musician known as Ed is Dead.) So I said the thing most people would say:
“What?”
“Yeah, Ed died two weeks ago.”
I got some of the story out of this barber, who told me that Ed had complained of stomach pains, and his wife wanted to take him to see a doctor, or even, one night, to the hospital, but Ed put it off. Then something burst in his abdomen, which caused internal bleeding… and he died from it.
“I’m sorry to hear this,” I said. “I really liked him. How old was he?” I asked.
“57.”
“Oh, man,” I said, again stupidly. Big, strapping, kinda good-looking, affable Ed, dead at 57. I wished he’d let his wife take him to get checked out.
“Yeah, I know,” said the barber.
“What’s your name?”
“Albert,” he said. “I’m the barber who cuts hair to the right of Ed. Um, used to cut hair to the right of Ed.”
“Well, Albert,” I said, “Can I book an appointment with you?”
So today I went for my first appointment with Albert. He and I recognized each other. When I sat down, I noticed a large banner newly affixed to the wall directly in front of me at eye level. “We will always miss you, Ed” it said, with a beaming photo on the right of handsome Ed, who had cut hair in this barber shop for 15 years.
One day, someone you know is here. The next, they’re gone. Best to appreciate them while they’re here.
Once upon a time, I wrote book reviews for the Los Angeles Times — including for the holiday book section, which made recommendations for Christmas gifts. (Remember book sections?) Each review had to be 100 words or fewer.
So, while I’ve written in 100-word spaces before, and even shorter (winning awards for captions and headlines in a previous life), I never thought to sum up my entire life in 100 words.
But that’s the challenge issued to me by longtime pal Mike Folie, who is a talented and heartfelt playwright and writer whose work I’ve always admired. (His one-man show about his sadly departed wife was breathtaking. Seriously. I gasped at the end.)
Mike shared with me that Garrison Keillor did this exercise: Tell your life story in 100 words or less.Here’s Keillor’s example, shared by Mike:
My parents were in love with each other, had six kids, I was third, an invisible child. I had no interest in crashing into people so didn’t play football or hockey and avoided brain damage. I dabbled in poetry and when I was 14, I read A.J. Liebling and decided to be a writer. I went into radio, which requires no special skill, and took the sunrise shift, which turned me toward comedy, listeners don’t want grievous introspective reflections at 5 a.m. I told stories for forty years and still do. I married well on the third try.
And here’s mine:
I grew up woods-adjacent, with a barren stretch of highway for frontage and endless forest and train tracks and no people behind me. Comics and books became my only friends, and I switched schools a lot. Accordingly, I became a writer. In my teens, I started getting published and started my first business, and discovered theatre in high school. I married a good woman and had three good children and after a long long while married a different good woman. I also did a lot of teaching, some of which I’m proud to say stuck on some writers.
Mine may require an update or appendix in years to come — and I certainly hope so.
In a paradox worthy of Schrodinger and his cat, I’ve now seen the film “Eno” twice — except really I have seen, once each, two films named “Eno.”
That’s because “Eno,” a documentary about the brilliant music producer and musician of sorts Brian Eno, is constructed anew on every viewing. Yes, every single time it is screened, a computer with the name Brain One (you’ll easily figure out the anagram) pulls from 30 hours of interviews with Eno and 500 hours of film from his personal archive to assemble this latest version of the movie.
Meaning that what two friends and I saw in Glendale in March and what I saw with one of those friends, plus my fiancée and my son, two weeks ago here in Los Angeles, are related but different. They’re cousins of the same film.
They were also both fascinating, enjoyable… and uplifting. Because while most of the press has been about the process, the true star is Eno himself: his disruptive creative process, his interest in both nature and electronics, and his pragmatic optimism.
My friend Trey and I are decades-long fans of Brian Eno and his work, as a founding member of Roxy Music, as a solo artist, as a collaborator with David Byrne, John Cale and others, and as a producer for Talking Heads, Devo, U2, Ultravox, and countless others. We also, some years ago, went to see Eno’s installation at California State University Long Beach of “77 Million Paintings,” which featured endlessly randomly generated paintings with endlessly randomly generated music by Eno himself. We also caught his talk about that and other things (like his Long Now movement).
So we are fans. Big fans.
After seeing “Eno” a second time, we both walked out saying we’d like to see it again. Unfortunately, it usually involves getting to the right place at the right time — because Brain One has to be onsite to work its magic.
Until now.
Now we, and you, and everyone, can see “Eno” thanks to this special showing:
On January 24th, there will be a global streaming event, “Eno 24.” Anyone, anywhere in the world, including viewers in any time zone on the planet will be able to watch multiple iterations of the film and much more.
Ready to start off feeling energized and productive with your writing?
Come join us when we reconvene the Words That Speak playwriting workshop just six weeks from now!
Come join us for 3 hours a week, every Saturday from 9:30 to 12:30 IN PERSON at a real theatre as we share pages and fellowship and have a lot of laughs and learn and grow together.
Every week you’ll bring about 7 pages of your new play, hear them read out loud, and gain helpful, positive feedback from other writers committed to your success.
It’s a community.
It’s a friendship group.
It’s supportive.
It’s proven to work. (For 32 years now, resulting in many, many productions.)
Just $345 gets you a weekly session with a circle of writer friends – plus outings together. (We’ll pick some plays to see together and discuss afterward.)
Questions? Let’s talk. Email me or text me at 818-288-2417 and we’ll have a call.
Best,
Lee
Workshop details:
Saturdays, 9:30 to 12:30, 1/18 to 3/8.
Location: Moving Arts theatre, 3191 Casitas Ave, Los Angeles, CA 90039 (Atwater Village).
There’s a huge, FREE parking lot
Every week we bring a set of about 7 pages for each playwright, including me and you
If you don’t have something you’re already working on, it’d be great to start something and bring it
But if not, please feel free to just show up for week one and we’ll do a writing exercise to get you going
First, always get a good cut. Most supermarkets allow dogs in, but they don’t offer it themselves in the meat department. Not a problem, though: If you aren’t fattening one up yourself at home, you can usually pick up a stray, and your local pound has plenty of dogs for the taking at very reasonable prices. One way or another, every dog has its day.
Once you’ve procured some dog, shave off all the hair. You do not want the hair of a dog that bit you. Sure, it would burn off in the grill, but you want to season the meat.
Dog is quite fatty and extremely fragrant, like a cross between beef and mutton. You can lean into that by sticking with kosher salt, rosemary and thyme, or a good lemon marinade will have you barking up a different tree. It depends on your individual taste.
Make sure you remove the giblets. You can roast those for breakfast or snacking later, or feed them to other dogs as part of fattening them up. It truly is a dog eat dog world.
As for cooking, roast it like a side of lamb, or section it for the grill. Don’t deepfry. Even if your cut was mean as a junkyard dog, you want it tender on the plate.
Serve it with red wine (a nice burgundy should do) and potatoes and invite some friends. This is a doggone good dinner that’ll leave your guests howling.
I’m staying solo at what seems like a motel campground, the sort with separate little bungalows and maybe a play area for kids and a firepit where all the bikers and meth heads gather ‘round.
In my room, I notice water coming out of the wall outlet flush with the nightstand. At first it’s a trickle. I start gently brushing away my pocket detritus – notes, receipts, dental picks, gum, a few coins. Then the water begins to surge, then shoot out of the outlet. I can’t figure out how this is happening. Is someone playing a trick of some sort? Is there someone on the other side of the wall with a hose or even a power washer? Water is flying across the room, bombarding the opposite wall.
I go outside and walk around and see that my room is, like the others, a standalone — there is no one playing a trick, because there is no adjoining room behind mine. The little utility shed, which might include the water works, is far off. This really is a mystery.
So I go back into the room, avoid all the water, and call the front desk. Whatever is happening isn’t affecting the phone. They promise to send someone over. When he arrives at the door, I’m surprised to see it’s raining outside. We’re having massive fires (again) in southern California right now, and rain would be welcome. He’s wearing tie-dye, and is someone I’d been hanging out with at the firepit. (Of course I was hanging out at the firepit. No meth for me, though.) He looks at this situation with mild interest, making me think this has happened before, and says I can ask the front desk if they can give me another room. This, because I think he doesn’t know what’s happening here, let alone how to fix it.
Then I woke up.
It took a full minute to realize that that had been a dream and that no, I didn’t need to deal with water gushing into my room.
Throughout my school career, I could never get my locker to open, at any of those schools. Oh, I always knew the combination to my combination lock, but just could never get the lock to work. In my second high school (yes, I went to two — and didn’t like either), my friend Tyndall would just unlock the damn thing for me and save me the aggravation of the struggle and him the irritation of having to hear about it. Finally, in my adulthood, I wised up and started buying locks that work off letters and that don’t need some dial to be turned; you just rotate the letters into position to spell out your secret word.
Proving yet again that I’m more of a word guy.
I share my background intentionally before relating this anecdote.
Not too long ago at the gym I belong to, there was a young guy in the locker room struggling with his lock. Trying the combination on the lock again and again, then spinning the dial to start over, and still not getting it. I could see he was about an inch away from heading to the front desk to ask them to get the bolt cutters.
Then he yelled out, “I got it! I got it!”
Then he added — and you’ll see I noted this — “I got it! 41-12-36! It opened!”
The good news: Well, next time he has this problem everybody who was there will be able to help.
The bad news: Well, we’ll see if they help themselves sometime he’s not there.
