(If you don’t know, it might be helpful to read this first.)

This will be by no means a complete or well-thought-out remembrance. As it is, it’s taken me a week to get this far, and I don’t know that anything I would write or say would ever get better.

Last night I finally felt able again to listen to some of David’s music. Driving into Hollywood, I fired up “Trouble on Big Beat Street,” the final Pere Ubu album (save the one to come posthumously) and the very beginning of it shot me through with adrenaline. Because it’s the most recent, this is the Ubu album I’ve played the least; listening to it last night and hearing the dearly departed dead man sing shocked me all over again:  Here was something truly original, something breathtaking in its originality actually, and very soon there would be nothing new coming from this voice that I have cherished and followed for most of my life.

In his singing, David was known for yelping, and howling, and growling, and more, and for most of my life, that voice has been grabbing me by the throat and shaking me.

It was more than his voice, to be sure. It was his sensibility. Certainly part of it was the raw determination that nothing nothing nothing would stop him — no shift in musical favor, no financial setback, no exodus of any band member essential or not, certainly no decline in his health (he put out two more albums after dying twice, and was working on this new one from the hospital); no, it took death to stop him, and somehow I think his music whether with Ubu or solo or in his other bands was just a bold proclamation that dammit he was going to do this no matter what, and he would never stop doing this until he was dead. There is a lot to be said for that. And there’s a lot to be said for the power in his music:  David Thomas music, in all its variety, is never listless or phoned in — no matter the tone, it’s always committed and powerful, sometimes a gutpunch and sometimes an ode to people and places best remembered, whether in your life or his, but despite the different ways it was conveyed, it always demanded attention, and deserved it.

Childhood is always formative, and it was in my late childhood that I found Pere Ubu — kind of. An older mentor of mine lent me a copy of the collected “Ubu” plays (thank you, Grove Press!) as written by Alfred Jarry, who was an impish and snotty high-schooler when he wrote the first one and so was very much someone on my wavelength. When, a bit later, I started publishing and distributing a rock-and-roll newspaper around southern New Jersey, one of my advertisers, an independent record store, listed the sorts of bands they carried, listed among them was Pere Ubu! I got over there quickly, but no, they did not have any Pere Ubu records; for a few years I would just have to content myself with reading the band’s album reviews in the first Rolling Stone Record Guide and then the second Rolling Stone Record Guide, which now had me slavering over ever getting to hear them. Finally, a few more years later when I was living on my own in the winter-abandoned beach town of Ocean City, I found a copy of “390 Degrees of Simulated Stereo” and raced home with it to drop it onto my turntable. As soon as it started up, my hair stood on end and I thought, “WHAT is THIS?” And then, quickly following:  “Whatever THIS is, THIS is for ME!”

(Years later, David was to tell me that in his experience a lot of fans’ first exposure to Pere Ubu was through “390 Degrees.” I surmised that maybe it had better distribution.)

After that, there was no turning back for me, and I tracked down every CD or album or cassette I could, scouring Philadelphia and New York for them. The band broke up for a period, then returned — with what, to me, is the finest album ever made, “The Tenement Year.” Somehow David and Ubu had found a way to marry near-pop with the clamor and clatter of its post-industrial-Ohio sound, for something even more remarkable. As someone who worked closely with dancers and choreographers for two years, I grew more accustomed to seeing how disparate elements separate and come together. I’m sure there are other examples of this in music (perhaps Stravinsky’s “Rite of Spring,” for one), but to me the exemplar is “The Tenement Year.” The production pulls an expert rhythm section (with two drummers), contrapuntal discord from synthesizers, a pop-oriented lead guitar and David’s caterwauling into a seamless whole with the sheen of what should have been popular for the intelligentsia. The band would go further into the pop realm with the next two albums (maybe two-and-a-half), but it was this record right here that showed that musically Pere Ubu could do anything… which they would prove over the next 37 years.

In 1989, I finally got to see the band play live, on the “Cloudland” tour, at the Roxy here in Los Angeles. And from that point, I never looked back. I saw them multiple times in Los Angeles (at the Knitting Factory; at UCLA; at the Echo; in David’s 3-day “Disastodrome” confabulation that included Rocket from the Tombs, the Kidney Brothers, Pere Ubu, Van Dyke Parks, George Wendt, and many other surprise guests and acts; and other places), in San Diego, in New York, Chicago, near-Cleveland Ohio, London multiple times, Canterbury England, Madrid, and God knows where else. Yes, I started following them around because what they had I could not get enough of. 

David had a reputation as a curmudgeon. Maybe he was. He was certainly exacting. But from my first interaction with him, in 1999, he was nothing but kind and generous and even grateful. That year I had a play running in London, and I made it part of the deal with the theatre that they’d bring me over and put me up for three weeks, so I set up all sorts of meetings with theatre producers and theatre people… and with David, who was living in Brighton with his first wife, who was English. I found his email address on the web and emailed him saying, essentially, because after all this was the internet, “I’m not a nut or a crank, I’m just a huge fan of your work. I’m coming to London to see my play. Can I invite you out for dinner or a pint?”

And to my astonishment, he emailed me back his phone number. And then when I got to town, I called him from one of those red British telephone boxes we admired, and he answered I just about couldn’t believe it. He took the train in, we met for dinner, I quickly realized I couldn’t keep up (he drank four pints; I quit at one-and-a-half) and then, miraculously, we jointly walked over and saw my play. It wasn’t terrific, but he was nice about it, and somewhere I have a photo of the two of us standing outside beneath the marquee. Thank you for that, David.

I had more experiences with David over the ensuing 25 years, either at shows, or online in emails or video meetups. Several years ago I went to Spain expressly to see his music workshop one night and Pere Ubu the next night, and he kindly joined my daughter and me and David’s manager and later wife Kiersty for dinner. Two years ago, David and Kiersty stayed with me at my house while in town for what would prove to be Pere Ubu’s final U.S. show; my two sons and I proudly helped load in the band at the concert venue and I got to meet the truly legendary Eric Drew Feldman (Pere Ubu, but also part of Captain Beefheart’s Magic Band), the also legendary Wayne Kramer (MC5), and to hang out again with Craig Bell (Rocket from the Tombs) and a bunch of fellow superfans. I will always cherish these memories, as well as the thought of David sitting in my back yard admiring my orange tree, and our discussion while I drove him over to the show (we talked mostly about “Pennsylvania,” to me another in a long list of their recorded highlights), and David having breakfast at my breakfast table, and one of my sons and I struggling to get David, by then wheelchair-bound, up into the main area of my house. You haven’t lived until you’ve lifted and carried the living creator who means the most to you in the world. 

I share that last part because it must be noted just how crucial Kiersty Boon has been to David, to Pere Ubu, and to David and the band’s fans. For several days, both here and in New York, but also in Madrid, I got to see just how much Kiersty put into helping David through all his mounting health issues. Kiersty, who is a wonderful and noteworthy poet and my good friend, was an incalculable boon to David — and to all of us around the world who cared so deeply about his music. Kiersty was the band’s manager, and the person creating the band’s marvelous music videos, and heading the merchandise design, and managing the merchandise tables, and so much more both creative and administrative that it boggles the mind to consider it. We would have had so much less without her. I think there would have been no operation at all without her.

I will always have the music, and as time goes by, I’m sure I’ll be able to focus more on that music and less on the overwhelming sense of loss I have. No, there won’t be any more concerts featuring David Thomas; it’s shocking to realize that that 36-year-period of my life is now over. I’m determined to hold onto the incredible friendships I’ve made through the Pere Ubu network, and I’ve been in touch with many of them. One replied, “Friends always, Lee,” which meant a lot to me, and I hold close to my heart a member of the band, to whom I’m enormously grateful, and Kiersty.

The people close to me are well aware how great a loss David’s passing feels to me. I went to the theatre two nights ago with one of them who had joined me at several of the LA Pere Ubu shows. He said that everything I’ve been sharing on Facebook and in texts to him inspired him to check in on Pere Ubu’s first two albums, the incomparable “The Modern Dance” and “Dub Housing.” He and I have very similar tastes in most things, but most importantly theatre and music, and he said that after finally listening to those two albums, he wondered, “How did I miss this?!?!?” And he got choked up, which got me choked up.

Lucky him, he’s got 19 studio albums to explore, and dozens of live recordings.

They are there for you, too.

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 20^th 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 20^th 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 95^th 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….”

Plus: doubtless, no fun at parties.

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.

I’ll miss Ed.

Glad to have Albert.

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.

What’s yours?

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. 

(For more about all this, click here.) 

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 24^th, 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.

Here’s the link:  https://www.ohyouprettythings.com/new-products/eno24

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
• Fee: $345

How to sign up: 

• Email me at lee@leewochner.com

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.