At this point, having seen probably 10 productions of “Waiting for Godot,” having read the play several times, thought about it, weighed the various merits of differing performances, and having gone so far as to give my son the middle name Beckett, I think I’m qualified to discourse on the play.

The acclaimed Gate Theatre production currently at UCLA Live! is no good.

I say this with no glee, mirrored only by my absence in glee seeing it.

Although the play is many things, one thing it is not or should not be is ponderous. But that’s what we have here. In fact, here’s how ponderous: It started around 8:10, and wrapped up just shy of 11 p.m., with a 20-minute intermission. Given that Act Two was 55 minutes (I clocked it), that puts Act One at about an hour and a half. Tooooo… slowwww….

My companion, the fiercely smart playwright and performer Trey Nichols, said that it was lacking in existential dread. Absolutely true. It was also lacking in comic rhythm. Beckett modeled the characters of Gogo and Didi after Laurel and Hardy; while I don’t expect Laurel and Hardy, I expect the comic spirit necessary to the parts. I also expect something to be at stake. Several years ago at The Matrix theatre in Hollywood, the late David Dukes, in addition to being a wonderful clown alongside co-star Robin Gammell, closed Act Two with a wrenching depiction of a man desperate to understand his place in the universe. The current Didi, played by Barry McGovern, seemed more like a man learning he might have to wait for the next bus.

Whom do I fault? Oddly enough, the memory of Samuel Beckett. Evidently his determination of how this play must be performed has been cast in stone at the Gate Theatre and with this director and at least two of the actors, all of whom he had personally worked with. This situation sounded hauntingly familiar, so when I got home I dug out my edition of Kenneth Tynan’s Letters , and there it was. (At the time, Tynan was the literary manager of the National Theatre.)

31 March 1964

To George Devine, copies to Laurence Olivier and William Gaskill, The Naitonal Theatre

Dear George:

Forgive me for writing, but I feel I must try to explain more clearly to you and Larry what is worrying me about “Play.” I wouldn’t do so if I didn’t feel that many of my qualms were shared by others.

To recap: before Sam B[eckett] arrived at rehearsals, “Play” was recognizably the work we all liked and were eager to do. The delivery of the lines was (rightly) puppet-like and mechanical, but not wholly dehumanized and stripped of all emphasis and inflections. On the strength of last weekend, it seems that Beckett’s advice on the production has changed all that — the lines are chanted in a breakneck monotone with no inflections, and I’m not alone in fearing that many of them will be simply inaudible. I suspect that Beckett is trying to treat English as if it were French — where that kind of rapid-fire monotony is customary.

The point is that we are not putting on “Play” to satisfy Beckett alone. It may not matter to him that lines are lost in laughs; or that essential bits of exposition are blurred; but it surely matters to us. As we know, Beckett has never sat through any of his plays in the presence of an audience: but we have to live with that audience night after night!”

Please understand me: I trust the play completely, and I trust your production of it, — up to the advent of the author. What I don’t especially trust is Beckett as co-director. If you could see your way to re-humanizing the text a little, I’ll bet that the actors and the audience will thank you — even if Beckett doesn’t!

Why have I seen “Godot” so many times? Because done well, it is an astonishing experience. The first time I saw it was as an undergrad, in a college production featuring my friend Joe Stafford as an imperious Pozzo. That was 20 years ago, but the performance has stuck with me — Joe embodied the comic boorishness of the role. And at the end, when the moon has risen and Godot has yet again not come, the lights drew down and pinlights of white emerged in the flies, signifying stars, and for a moment I lost my place in the universe. That’s an effect I’ve been swiping ever since, as with “Two Men Losing Their Minds” at Moving Arts in 2000.

Done right, with verve and with stakes, featuring characters who yearn for answers, “Waiting for Godot” is a transformational experience. Performed as a museum piece pregnant with significance, it’s a crashing bore.

Just came back from an after-event client/prospecting event in Santa Monica thrown by one of the sponsor-vendors of the Digital Hollywood event here in town this week. Over a succession of drinks (three vodka gimlets for me — and no driving) and way-too-large entrees, we discussed where media — and specifically “television” — might be going.

A little backstory:

In 1980, fresh out of high school, I somehow found my way to Alvin Toffler‘s book “The Third Wave.” Toffler was writing about the epochs of human civilization, and disruption, and niche marketing, and counterintuitive solutions, and, most importantly and on a grand scale, change. Twenty-six years later it’s more obvious than ever what an enormous impact the book had on me (especially having read it after “Nine Chains to the Moon” by R. Buckminster Fuller).

So tonight, as the gentleman charged with overseas ads for Sony programs on foreign-language stations in emerging markets wondered what the future would be, my response was: smaller and smaller niches, and more and more interactivity, with content seeking the correct viewer rather than viewers seeking the correct content, a la Netflix, Amazon, etc. While my train of thought was certainly hurtling down the tracks, fueled by good company and good vodka, I know Toffler was there first — and a long time ago.

Which brings me back to the title of this post. This past week I watched TV several times without watching it once. While I was out of town, I caught up on the show “Jericho” thanks to CBS’s absolutely terrific online viewing portal. (To my eyes, the best one yet; by comparison ABC’s is slow and jumpy and has too many commercials breaks of too long a length.) When I got back, having missed “Battlestar Galactica,” I popped two bucks for the iTunes download. And before leaving, my daughter Emma and I watched “Lost” on ABC.com.

You’ll note the absolute lack of “television” while watching television.

What will be the determinant of what formats and offerings succeed? As best bud Grant put it, “Convenience.” Yes, price will play a role, and content of course, but in an age where commodity prices fall precipitously every day, and where so much “broadcast” content is better than ever before, it’s ease of use — the flexibility that busy people demand — that will rule.

Good news for people who provide convenient good content at a fair price (or free).

Bad news for people who provide so-so content that is inconvenient and over-priced. This should be a wakeup call to all my friends and colleagues in the performing arts: Your work had better be as good as you think it is, and you’d better be thinking about how (or whether) peope can get there, let alone afford the offering.

And now I’m going to bed. To watch the third disk of “Elizabeth R,” from my Netflix queue. (Is there something on a “network schedule?” I guess.)

Let me just add to the day’s festivities by saying “Happy Creation Day!”

Yes, it was a mere 6009 years ago today that God created the Universe, as revealed in the 1600’s by Bishop James Ussher.

It might have been a Tuesday.

For the Mayans, and converting the esteemed Bishop’s research, this great work occurred on 2.5.3.14.0 13 ‘Ahaw 8 Yaxk’in. (Today being 12.19.13.13.7 13 Manik’ 0 Sac, but you knew that.)

But while calendars can read the date differently — and while some would call the whole thing into question claiming that the “fossil evidence” refutes the entire claim — none of us should take such a day lightly.

So what have we learned in the past 6009 years?

We’ve learned this about God:

1. God is ever-present — except when He isn’t.
2. He is a benevolent God — except when He isn’t.
3. He is on your side — except when He isn’t, and that’s because of you. It’s your fault somehow.
4. Sometimes when you think He isn’t on your side, He really is — He’s just trying to teach you a lesson, which you later absorb if you are faithful enough to understand.

These seeming contradictions are self-clarifying when you give them enough consideration. Skeptics may have a hard time reconciling people who, say, narrowly escape the wrath of Hurricane Katrina and “Thank God” for their rescue, while never “blaming God” for the hurricane in the first place. The hurricane was a test — which they passed — and those didn’t pass may have been part of the lesson for those who did.

We’ve learned this about Creation:

1. No matter how bad you think it is, there’s someone who has it far worse. And that is worth remembering.
2. It’s pretty big. No matter how much you travel, you can’t visit all of it.
3. Most things that seem incredibly important at the time — like LonelyGirl 15 — really don’t matter at all.
4. There is just about no place to park.
5. For the most part, it is what you make of it. Is it a miserable place? That probably started with you.

So today is a day for celebrating. If you’re reading this: You’ve made it!

At least so far.

Yesterday while in San Diego I decided to get an ice cream cone at Ben & Jerry’s. While I was figuring out which overpriced and undertasty flavor to order, the college-going ice-cream scooper leans over to see the title of the book I’m reading.

“World War Z: An Oral History of the Zombie War,” he reads out loud. Then he turns to me and says, “Is that fiction?”

My Shatner moment, during the Orlando’s Joint recording session.

Quintessential actor, or Honeybaked Ham? You decide.

I didn’t flip over The Road to read it again because now my son is reading it (apt, considering that the book is about a father and son, except the only struggle for food we have is once a week carrying it into the house from the supermarket).

Instead, I’m now reading World War Z: An Oral History of the Zombie War” (which, staying abreast of the news as I do, I think we’re still fighting).

Why so much apocalypse?

Because it seems to be in the air.

Because while there are things to fear, we more than ever are being conditioned to fear.

Because when you’ve finished a novel like one of these (including Philip Roth’s The Plot Against America) you can close the back cover and relax: It didn’t happen here.

Yet.

Get up.

Urinate.

Coffee. Grape nuts or eggs. Newspaper.

Internet (email, blogs, miscellany).

Gym or not.

Ablutions, etc.

Work/write/teach.

Lunch or lunch meeting.

Work/write/teach.

Dinner with or without family, or dinner meeting.

Family time or work/write/teach.

Read/write/view.

Sex or not.

Sleep fitfully.

Repeat until finished.

Whereas in times past I may have acted cartoonishly, now I’m acting in a cartoon.

What the welcome mat outside every door really says: “Please wipe your feet before entering.”

That’s what we call subtext.

I don’t know how that applies here, but I’m thinking about it.