In general, I don’t care too much about film directors — I’m more interested in theatre and literature, and the auteurs I follow are writers as well as directors: Buster Keaton, Fritz Lang, Paul Schrader… and Werner Herzog, who is in a class by himself.

As I’ve remarked before, Herzog’s films are simultaneously wonderful and bad. He always seems to miss precisely the shot he needs to convey the story. In fact, entire scenes seem to go missing, with plot threads dangling in the wind. At the same time, every single one of his films is loaded with individual moments so startling, so compelling and odd, that it will never leave you. In “Aguirre, Wrath of God,” one of those moments is the little raft that gets caught in a pool of turbulence, eventually drowning part of the expedition. (Which, in typical Herzog form, almost actually happened to a member or two of the cast.) In “Fitzcarraldo,” it’s Klaus Kinski’s character awakening to find that the riverboat he’s on is careening toward a waterfall. In “Grizzly Man,” it’s the shot of the supremely naive Timothy Treadwell swimming serenely with one of his bear brethren and then seeing that bear swing about to take a swipe at him in an awful premonition of Treadwell’s ultimate fate. These films, plus “Rescue Dawn,” “Little Dieter Needs to Fly,” “Where the Green Ants Dream,” “My Best Fiend,” and several Herzog short subjects have given me hours of delight (mixed with frustration over the errant storytelling.

But who knows what delights await me in this boxed set, pictured above, which arrived just today, new and unopened and for about forty bucks? (Thank you, eBay.)  The set includes  “The Enigma Of Kaspar Hauser,” “Even Dwarfs Started Small,” “Fata Morgana,” “Lessons Of Darkness,” “Heart Of Glass,” “Strozsek,” and “And Little Dieter Needs To Fly.” I imagine many hours of enjoyable late-night viewing by myself.

Why by myself? Except for two close friends whose schedules rarely match with my own, and a third friend who lives on the East Coast, I can’t think of anyone who’d like to come watch these. (And I’m not even sure that two of those three would enjoy these. In fact, sometimes I’m not sure I “enjoy” Herzog’s films — I’m just compelled by them.)

A story I’d like to share. Several months ago, “Where the Green Ants Dream” arrived at my house, courtesy of Netflix. My wife and I were both home that night (a rarity), and as we lay in bed, she wondered aloud what had come from Netflix. Now usually, Valorie rips open my Netflix envelope, reads the sleeve, shakes her head and sighs and slips the disk back into the envelope. At least, that’s what our son Lex reports. I’ve offered to set up her own queue of things she’d like to see, but she’s not interested, so the queue is entirely my own and it’s not generally things found at your local cineplex four months ago. My tastes range from obscure documentaries to obsessive narratives courtesy of German directors. This time, though, she thought why not, and agreed to watch “Where the Green Ants Dream.” In this film, a mining company is blowing up whole landscapes of the Australian outback — at least until a group of Aborigines set up camp expressly to block further dynamiting. From there, not much happens, except an old woman pulls up a lawn chair and waits patiently for her dog to emerge, said dog having entered the system of artificial caves. Much later, either the dog returns or Herzog simply forgets about it — I can’t remember which. We start watching this film at about a quarter after midnight, in bed, both of us wondering what if anything is going to happen. Finally, Valorie sits up and announces that she’s going to do the laundry. At 1 a.m. And she did. After watching half the movie and already being in bed.

To me, this episode speaks volumes about why I’ll be enjoying the Herzog oeuvre alone.

Today I got a Google alert that Lee Wochner had died.

That caught my attention, so I clicked on the link.

Here’s what I learned:

Leland R. “Lee” Wochner
DECATUR – Leland R. “Lee” Wochner, 80, Decatur, retired from Caterpillar Inc., died Tuesday (April 8, 2008). Services: 10 a.m. Saturday, Brintlinger and Earl Funeral Homes, Decatur. Visitation: 6 to 8 p.m. Friday, with 8 p.m. Masonic services. Burial: Salem Cemetery. Memorials: Decatur Masonic Temple Building Restoration Fund or Macon County Animal Control and Care Center.
Published in the Decatur Herald & Review on 4/11/2008.

You can understand my relief in seeing that I wasn’t the dead person. (Although, like Mark Twain, I was curious to see what people would have said.)

In one of the many wondrous examples of the fascinating adventures one can lead through the internet, I actually “met” (virtually) Leland R. Wochner about 10 years ago. Someone emailed me something thinking that I was he, which led me back to him. I remember him as rather crochety, but I also recall being impressed with his just getting started on the internet at age 70. Ten years ago, that was noteworthy.

My full first name, by the way, is Lee. Not Leland, or Leon, or Leeward, or any of those. My mother chose the name because she had three children before me all of whom got a nickname: Raymond became “Raymie” or “Ray,” Michael became “Mikey” or “Mike” (although we family members all still call him Michael), and Lorene got tagged with “Lorie.” So my mother looked for a name she didn’t think would result in a nickname, and here I am with it. And it worked.

Given the rarity of the combination of my first and last names — “Lee” not sounding terribly, well, German, and therefore an unusual choice — it was surprising indeed (and, as Freud would note, disappointing) finding someone else with the same name. I’m just glad I’m not dead as well.

I’ve gotten several private emails from others unhappy about the invidious comparisons between illegal immigrants and, well, burglars, kidnappers, filthy birds, animals, and the like.

That sort of gross distortion brings to mind this video.

With reference to my previous post:

My wife left for work, but here’s the note she left for me to find when I came home: “Corned beef & cabbage in pot. Happy St. Paddy’s Day!”

I’ll have to check with Alanis Morissette to see if that’s ironic or just coincidental.

In a similar vein, it now occurs to me that there has been just one Irish superhero I can think of — Banshee, of the X-Men. And he was killed in action.

If you ever see me wearing green on St. Patrick’s Day, I assure you it’s accidental. That’s because, like 98% of the rest of us, I’m not Irish — but unlike the other 98%, I refuse to go along. I don’t have anything against the Irish — or any people as a group, except dangerous extremists — but I’m not Irish so I’m not wearing green for the occasion.

Last night when my wife was reminding our children what clothes they could wear today, I shared yet again my antipathy toward St. Patrick’s Day, one of those festive occasions that revolve around driving to a bar and getting hammered. She had a good response: “At this point, it’s a Hallmark holiday.” I can see where that would work for most. But given that I was never suckered by the cards-n’-kitsch company into, say, Grandparent’s Day, that just hardened my resolve.

This morning my little boy, aged five, put on a green shirt and green camouflage pants; I had a frisson of delight at the mismatch of that. My 16-year-old wore a green DTASC shirt; since “DTASC” stands for “Drama Teachers Association of Southern California” I could live with that. But then I saw my daughter in a green shirt with a large glowing shamrock on the front and my wheels started to turn.

“When’s Martin Luther Day?” I asked.

“That’s in January,” my wife said. Then she realized I didn’t mean the slain civil rights leader.

“Where do I get a shirt that says, ‘Respect me, I’m German’?”

Now I was on a tear.

The idea of “the luck of the Irish” really appalls me — if I believed in luck, I would point out that historically these are highly unlucky people. “How about a shirt that says ‘The Work of the German’?” At least work, unlike luck, can be readily identified.

And yes, given the history of the 20th century, I realize there is little sympathy for my point of view on this. But as I dropped Emma off at her school I couldn’t help calling after her as she headed inside aswim in a sea of green-kitted kids, “Remember! You’re not Irish and you’re not Catholic!”

Just because I didn’t blog yesterday or today doesn’t mean I wasn’t thinking about what to blog about. So here are the things I thought about blogging about that I didn’t blog about:

1. That it now occurs to me that counting students, thesis students, workshop members, private dramaturgy clients, and me, I’m knee-deep in 19 different new plays — and exactly one of them is by me.
2. That I’m reading three books — and not at the moment writing either of the two I’m working on.
3. That “John Adams” on HBO leaves untouched the great question: How someone like Paul Giamatti gets someone like Laura Linney. And then leaves her behind for years at a time.
4. That yes, I can do a baked dijon flounder at home and have it come out well — but it will never be the baked dijon flounder at Smith’s Clam Bar in Somers Point, New Jersey.
5. That while Eliot Spitzer is a hypocrite who needed to go, I have to wonder again how many violent crimes could be prevented and how many roads and bridges and schools rebuilt and able-bodied productive non-violent people released from prison to help feed the economy if we legalized prostitution and decriminalized marijuana and taxed them both.
6. That Wizard World was in Los Angeles this weekend and I didn’t go because Comic-Con comes but once a year and Wizard World ain’t it.
7. That the Fed bailed out Bear Stearns, and it was those “free marketers” who cheered. In a free market, failing businesses fail. We had NIMBY (Not In My Back Yard); now we have NIMBA (Not In My Bank Account). By the way, the Fed funds that backed up Bear Stearns came from the Treasury — which means they were tax money. Which means you and I bailed out Bear Stearns. And yet we never got any of those windfall profits. This seems like something potentially more worthy of a federal investigation than call-girl rings.

I’m sure more will follow as I think about it.

Above we see the bucolic bungalow once inhabited by Charles Bukowski. (And it looks more appropos than ever.)

This is just one of dozens of wonderful atmospheric photos of Los Angeles landmarks one may find on this site, where you’ll find everything from Walt Disney’s first studio (a garage), to the home of Zappa Records (which I’ve passed about a hundred thousand times), to our local stand-in for The Daily Planet.

Thanks to Mark Chaet for letting me know about this.

This weekend I’m producing readings of two new plays by Connie Yoshimura, a playwright I work with as dramaturge.

Please come join us.

Here’s Sunday night’s offering: “Open House.” (Monday night’s reading is “Lies My Mother Told Me”; more about that shortly. And yes, for my purposes, “Monday” is part of the weekend. Hmph.)

What happens when everyone in the neighborhood suspects the worst about you?

That’s one of the questions explored in “Open House,” a new play by Connie Yoshimura receiving a staged reading this Sunday, March 9 at 7 p.m. at the Hollywood Court Theatre.

Please join me for this free event, with catered reception afterward. I’m the dramaturge on this project and am eager to hear your input.

“Open House” by Connie Yoshimura

directed by Mark Kinsey Stephenson

with

Carolyn Hennesy, Ronnie Steadman, Maria Lay, Kip Adams, Liza de Weerd, Laura Buckles, Richard Ruyle, Angie Hauk, Toby Meuli, and Rick Sparks

Hollywood Court Theatre at Hollywood United Methodist Church

(the church with the large AIDS ribbon on the tower)

6817 Franklin Avenue, Hollywood CA 90028

Click here for directions.

There is a large free parking lot. Park in the lot, then enter through the gates in front into the courtyard. Walk up the ramp to your left. Go to your right along the breezeway and you’ll see a set of doors to your left. Go up the stairs to the second floor, turn right, and you’ll be at the theatre. We will post signs directing you.

What: rehearsed reading of “Open House” by Connie Yoshimura, with reception

When: Sunday, March 9 at 7 p.m.

Where: Hollywood Court Theatre, 6817 Franklin Avenue, Hollywood

Please join me.

Twelve years ago, before we had even moved into the house we were buying, a man stopped by and tried to sell my wife a security system, one of those deals where they put the stern sign on your lawn (“This home protected by Westec Security!”) and have a car drive by every once in a while just to take a look. There would be an upfront fee, and a monthly fee for ongoing service. I came to the front door just as he was closing his appeal and convincing Valorie of the necessity and the incredible affordability of the security system we hadn’t known we needed. His pitch included words to this effect:

“This is a neighborhood in transition. You’re pretty close to North Hollywood.” (Which I took for code as “minorities” and/or “gangs.”) “There have been four break-ins in this neighborhood recently.”

We had already signed the mortgage on the house. Valorie looked stricken. She wanted to sign up for this security. I took the security salesman’s pamphlet, sent him packing, and said to Valorie, “Come with me.” We walked next door and I rang the bell for my soon-to-be neighbors. An older couple came to the door, we introduced ourselves, and they came out.

“How often has there been a break-in around here?” I asked.

The couple looked at each other. Then the man, Brad, said, “Never.”

“How long have you lived here?” I asked.

“Nineteen years,” he said.

We thanked them, walked back to our new home, threw away the security-system information and started moving in. And in the 12 years hence, there have still been no break-ins.

Most people buy the security system, though, whether they need it or not. In study after study, fear outsells hope. And that’s what happened in three out of four state primaries yesterday when a lot of late deciders chose Hillary Clinton. Here, metaphorically, is what Hillary Clinton’s security-system pamphlet on the dangers of living in the Barack Obama neighborhood looked like:

1. Like a photo of a black man with a Muslim/African name dressed in Arab garb. Her campaign put that out. Never mind that it’s protocol and political good manners to wear traditional garb when meeting with foreign dignitaries — and that, therefore, Hillary has done the same.

2. Like a TV commercial that shows kids sleeping, and an anxious white woman in her home, while the scary telephone rings. Never mind that every time Hillary has answered the phone she’s made the wrong call. And that — of course — her opponent would also pick up the phone.

3. Like this response, by the candidate herself, when asked if Obama is a Muslim: “Not that I know of.” Note the innuendo.

There was more of this, and none of it was unexpected: This is politics, not charm school. But it does serve as a good reminder that P.T. Barnum was right, that there is a sucker born every minute. It also serves as a reminder that in a free (or relatively free) society, you get the politics you deserve. When we reward base tactics with votes, we ensure more of the same.

I’m halfway through the process of hiring six stage directors for three different plays (which means: I still need three directors). So yesterday I’m speaking to one on the phone who I think would be good for this particular play. But after listening to her schedule, I say, “Hm. It really doesn’t sound like this is going to work.” Bear in mind, she’s just told me that she’s directing another play, one that requires her to be on-site every night, and she’s got a family commitment for all of tech weekend. She shoots back, “But I don’t even know about your project.” So then I explain about the project — being friendly, but utterly wasting time for both of us because it’s transparent that she can’t do my project — and as soon as I’m done, she says words to the effect of, “Oh, I’m sorry, I have these other commitments that I just can’t change, so I’m afraid I’ll have to say no.”

In other words, she couldn’t bear to be rejected, so she turned it around so she was rejecting me.

Pretty pathetic.

I didn’t reject her because of her personality, I rejected her because of her schedule. In fact, I wasn’t truly rejecting her, I was just noting that it wouldn’t work with her schedule. But given this window into working with her, we needn’t worry about that happening again.