I guess I’m glad that my good friend Doug Hackney had corrective surgery to his eyes. Doug’s always been a visionary, and we wouldn’t want to lose that.

But describing the procedure at length — and including photos of every gruesome up-close eye-scraping and incision, as you can read here if you’re of strong stomach — brought to mind what we in comics fandom call “injury to eye motif.” Here are some sterling examples:

These comics are highly collectible, and I think we can see why: They prey on one of our deepest fears. And although Doug sadly knows little or nothing about comic books, I think he understands the collective subconscious as well as anyone. Why else tease us with a close-up of his visage looking like something straight out of “X, the Man with X-Ray Eyes?” And who could possibly read his story and look at the photos without flinching? No one. Because seeing is believing.

Larry King has long prided himself on going into interviews cold. Some of us prefer to, well, know what we’re talking about so as to avoid embarrassing ourselves for posterity. Here’s an example of his style, come a cropper, in an interview with Jerry Seinfeld. (And thank you to newsfromme.com, where I saw this clip.)

What elements work to scare people to death? (Other than what’s happening to the country.)

• surprise
• inappropriateness
• shock
• exaggeration
• pain and suffering

What elements work for comedy?

• surprise
• inappropriateness
• shock
• exaggeration
• pain and suffering

As Buster Keaton said, “Nothing is funnier than a guy falling down a flight of stairs.” (Or something to that effect.) The line between horror and humor is thin indeed.

I was thinking about this last night as my friend Trey and I made our annual pilgrimage to Knott’s Berry Farm (rechristened every year as “Knott’s Scary Farm”) for the Halloween Haunt, now in its 35th year. Inevitably, my favorite part is the evil clowns. No, I don’t know why. They’re simultaneously hilarious and horrifying, so maybe it’s the double visceral thrill. I especially enjoy being in one of the mazes — preferably a 3D maze like the clown house from two years ago — and getting surprised by one of these twisted bozos jumping out from a blind corner (as perhaps happened to Trey in the photo below, taken in the “Doll Factory” maze).

Here I am, below, in another area of the same maze. I think the idea here is that the doll makers were trying to make a doll of the woman in this case, who unfortunately was still alive. Given that these mazes are mostly dark, with pounding music, strobe lighting, psychedelic effects, and hidden doors and switchbacks for hideously garbed performers to jump out at you from, it’s difficult to muster the concentration needed to make sense of much of this. Perhaps that’s the key to the fun: It’s like reliving all your childhood nightmares and laughing them off.

We’ve gone every year for five years now, I think. I took my wife with me for our anniversary (yes, we were married on Halloween) 12 years ago and she felt too old for it and derided me for my enjoyment; I was all of 33, she was 30. This year I couldn’t help noticing that the average age of attendees does seem to be that of Archie and his pals at Riverdale High, but occasionally I would catch the eye of some other guy in his 40’s and we’d look at each other knowingly. In “Tender is the Night,” Dick Diver’s annual test of his youth was whether or not he could leap over the couch. As for me, I plan to keep going to Knott’s Scary Farm every year until one of the damn clowns actually gives me a heart attack, and then I’ll know I’m finished.

Last week while I was in Las Vegas, I caught the act of revered colleague Shelley Berman. In fact, in retrospect I wonder if I didn’t go to Las Vegas precisely so that I could see the act of the revered Berman.

I grew up seeing Shelley do his act on The Mike Douglas Show and The Merv Griffin Show and the like and even then thought there was something special about him. In an age that spanned far-out groovy comics, new absurdists (Steve Martin, Emo Phillips, Steven Wright), and human jumping beans frantically yanking props out of boxes (Gallagher, are you out there?), Shelley’s act was practically zenlike in its comparative stillness. His humor moved at the speed of erosion, and with similar particulate precision.

Although every year for almost 20 years I’ve seen him do some variation of his act in his capacity as a lecturer the Master of Professional Writing program at USC — even when his act that day revolved around mocking the miniscule salad at a faculty luncheon — I’d never seen him do stand-up in a club. So the opportunity to see him at Harrah’s, where he headlined the Improv, wasn’t one to miss.

And I’m glad I didn’t miss it. As a generous courtesy, Shelley had me seated next to his wife of 60 years, Sarah. Especially from that ringside perspective, my admiration for his comic facility grew. It’s pointless to try to recapture his lines here, especially without his delivery, but few people know how to work a room like that, improv off people in the front rows, weave in old bits seamlessly, or maintain a meticulously calculated pace, let alone do it so well at age 81. It felt wonderful to laugh that deeply.

His career revival is in full flourish. He’s recurring on “Curb Your Enthusiasm” and “Boston Legal,” he plays Adam Sandler’s father in that comic’s forthcoming new film, and he was recently given a lifetime achievement award at the Boston Comedy Festival. With all that, though, at the close of his act he said he always returns to live performance because of the bounce he gets from an audience. “This is what I live for,” he said.

Here’s Shelley’s website. You should check in once in a while and see if he’s performing live somewhere near you. Then you should go.

Anyone who has seen the Beckett play “Act Without Words” (“Actes sans saroles”) will find this battle between an animation and its “off-stage” animator and his tools thematically similar. There are no new ideas, only new mediums for expression.

(If the embed doesn’t work for you, click on the link at the bottom.)

Animator vs. Animation by *alanbecker on deviantART

Ricky Gervais shows us the poverty in Africa and how to truly help some people.

You may recall my failed attempts last week at convincing my kids to see “Mr. Bean’s Holiday.” Sixteen-year-old Lex was always up for it, but his two younger siblings were adamantly opposed because, quote, “Mr. Bean is stupid.” (This led me to a theory that Mr. Bean is uncool, and my kids want to be cool, at least until they become teenagers when, evidently, it’s okay to self-identify as a nerd even when one has actually become cool.) Over the course of the week my nine-year-old daughter weakened and this morning for some reason my five-year-old son relented, and we were off to see “Mr. Bean’s Holiday.”

It was terrific fun.

Surely no one reading this needs any further discourse on Rowan Atkinson’s comedic skills. But what became evident throughout the movie was the joy in it — the simple, childlike pleasure in being foolish. One of the subplots concerns a boy of 10 or 12 whom Mr. Bean is trying to reunite with his parents in Cannes. Later, Bean and the boy wind up separated as well, and when we discover what the boy was up to sans Bean it turns out he was adopted by an Afro Cuban jazz band traveling between gigs, where the kid had the time of his life. And isn’t that really what so much of 10- or 12-year-old boyhood is about — adventure? Hijinx? I’m sure other movies, especially the American comedies, would have shown him in increasing peril; here, he’s off on a lark. Every bit of “Mr. Bean’s Holiday” was like that: silly, upbeat, and sunny. When the movie ended the audience applauded, and when we stepped out all three kids proclaimed their love for “Mr. Bean.” Outside, the world seemed brighter.

Not for most Americans, though, as The New York Times reports here. Perhaps there’s something wrong with you if like Mr. Bean or, well, goofy fun. Last week in one of my classes I shared my appreciation for Mr. Bean and one or two students snorted. “There goes your credibility,” one said. But I’m not seeking credibility from anyone else; I know what I like and I know why I like it and I’m capable of expressing it — and that makes me cool.

Good friend and longtime finder of cool things in pop culture Rich Roesberg tells me I have to read this strip. It seems to concatenate several of my interests: comic books, literary revisionism, and that pesky God fella.

Now you can read it, too.

Today I hiked a large section of Griffith Park behind the observatory with my kids, aged 16, 9, and 5, and the family dog. It’s about a 3-hour hike and, at times, pretty steep. Lex, the 16-year-old, insisted on wearing his new weight vest, which adds 45 lbs to your torso. (Something that Newcastle beer and Slim Jims would also do, but more enjoyably.) He is seriously into weight lifting and said his new fitness goal was to run the seven-minute mile.

“That’s nothing,” I said. “Batman ran the mile in two minutes. So did Robin.”

“He’s fictional!” Lex said, his face running with sweat. We were now over two hours into the hike.

Although I couldn’t remember the precise episode, I remember Batman turning to Robin and telling him they’d have to do that mile in two minutes or some bomb would go off. Commissioner Gordon looked concerned and Chief O’Hara was plainly aghast because Batman and Robin had just come back from running a three-minute mile in the same episode.

“Don’t tell me,” I told Lex. “I saw it. And he was about 40 years old with a paunch. And he had that heavy cape and cowl.”

These kids just don’t believe how much tougher the previous generations were. It’s up to us to keep reminding them.

After the hike, on which I also wore the vest for half an hour just to give the kid a break, I came home and bathed the dog. Then I fell asleep for an hour on the couch.

Two years in a row now I’ve attended the Western Food Expo for business reasons.

Now, as a father of three sometimes called upon to break up warring factions at the dinner table, I think I might be better served by attending this food conference — where vendors pitch their food products to prisons. (And where it’s important to keep the stick out of the corn dog.)