On the one hand, I admire Brian Dettmer’s art. It’s beautiful and striking.

But on the other hand, it involves maiming books.

When I was made aware of Dettmer’s work by my friend Doug Hackney, I responded, “Destroying books? Who is this guy, ISIS?” Because that’s the way I feel about it. (And them.) Doug responded that it was a tough call for him as well.

But — because art lovers are almost assuredly book lovers too, and what book lover can delight in seeing a book get cut up? — perhaps that visceral reaction is precisely the point.

Here. Judge for yourself.

On Friday, a friend and I went to see the Arthur Miller play “The Price” downtown at the Taper. I am not by nature an Arthur Miller fan; I’d rather be burned at the stake than ever again sit through the screaming girls in “The Crucible,” and to me the dramatic problems presented in “Death of a Salesman” would be easily solved if only Willy Loman would get a job he’s better suited for. But “The Price” turned out to be a completely engaging, unexpected and well-written evaluation of the price paid for certain life decisions by two brothers fighting (or not) over what’s left behind after their father’s death. Moreover, it’s anchored by four very fine performances, especially that of 87-year-old Alan Mandell, stealing the show as a comically sly appraiser wheedling a storehouse of old furniture out of Sam Robards’ grasp in exchange for peanuts. Mandell delivers every laugh possible while bringing to life a performance that’s completely plausible and true. That he can do this at age 87 is argument itself against term limits for stage actors.

Afterward, my friend and I went for a drink and shared another sort of price: While it’s often reported how expensive it is to attend the theatre, there’s the even greater very real financial cost paid by those devoted to making theatre. The backdrop for this discussion was our own experiences (I have no doubt I’m out hundreds of thousands of dollars) as well as the ugly rumblings from Actors Equity that it may end the 99-seat plan that allows union actors to perform on LA’s small stages. Moving actors in sub-100-seat houses from token payments of $10 or $20 a performance into minimum wage won’t help them make a living; instead, it’ll shutter our small theatres and sideline thousands of actors. (But then, if you’re the union and you subsist on dues and shares of revenues, and your revenue resulting from these theatres is almost nil, why should you care?) The actors have been subsidizing small theatre, for sure — but so have been the playwrights and the directors and the board ops and everyone else involved. And God knows the producers — and I’ve been one — have spent both opportunity costs and actual hard cash on keeping small theatre alive, because it means so much to us.

Scheduling and life circumstances had cost my friend and me more than a year and a half since we’d last seen each other. I just confirmed this in my calendar. The last time we’d gone out together had been in August of 2013 to see a Woody Allen movie. Judging by the terrific time we had together on Friday night, that’s far too long. I also note that in 2011 we saw a movie called “The Debt.” I couldn’t remember anything about this movie, so I just looked it up. Now it comes back to me. It’s a thriller about old friends who shared an adventure in the past, but who question the choices they made, much as the characters in “The Price” do. And much as we all do.

I wish the Beckett estate would lift the embargo so the first (and only) season of this could be released on DVD or streaming.

Well, I guess ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better.

Here’s something I won’t be watching: Every Marvel movie stitched together into chronological order.

Which would still be shorter than something else I won’t be watching: every Peter Jackson Rings/Hobbit movie put together.

John Cleese, who’s on a book tour, recently got together with former comedy partner Eric Idle for a fun hour-long chat here in town. Here’s that chat. I know — you think you don’t want to watch it. I urge you to do so. But fair warning: If, like me, you think you’ll watch five or 10 minutes and then turn it off, you’ll be wrong. You’ll wind up watching the whole blessed thing. Because whether they’re reminiscing about the beginnings of Monty Python or dishing on their former castmates or tossing funny barbs back and forth or re-enacting hilarious sketches from the now-lost show Cleese did before Python, they’re hilarious.

This really puts everything into a new light.

Sad to learn of Sid Caesar’s passing. Well, somewhat sad. Sad in that an era is passing — if it hasn’t already left us entirely; that would be the era of gifted comedians and actors who came up through stage comedy such as vaudeville. That generation had incredible chops. Not said in that Mr. Caesar was in very poor shape in recent years, and this is probably a blessing.

I’m glad that, about 15 years ago (maybe more, at this point), I got to see him with Imogene Coca doing a “Your Show of Shows” revival live on-stage here in L.A. My wife and I were the youngest attendees by centuries. (She said to me, “We’re seeing WHO?”) Actually, as I recall, Mr. Caesar was 68 at the time, so, given that he died at 91, that was… an incredible 23 years ago. Could it be? Here’s how I know that: During one sketch, he took off his shirt and my wife exclaimed loudly, “WOW — he’s built!” All of the bodybuilding paid off, at least then. (And partly offset the drinking, I guess.) He and Ms. Coca were fantastic — endlessly funny and entertaining — and, well, I’m glad I got to see it. That turned out to be Imogene Coca’s last live performance, and now we won’t be seeing Sid Caesar anymore either.

I’m glad to say I saw Rodney Dangerfield. And I’ve seen Bob Newhart. If you have a chance to see classic comedian while they’re still here, you should do it. They’re not going to be here much longer, and the new people are funny — but they aren’t classics.

On Sunday, I awoke to find two blog-related emails. The first I addressed in the preceding post.  The second was from the star of The Whale, thanking me for my “kind words” here, which had just been forwarded to him. I told him they weren’t kind words, they were earned praise — that his portrayal was astonishing, reminding me all too well of a dear longtime friend who struggled all too mightily with morbid obesity.

After handling those emails and a lengthy breakfast consumed with reading two thick Sunday newspapers, I took my two younger children to play miniature golf.  There is something wrong with the miniature golf course these days, because one of these children finished with a better score than mine. I’m not sure how that happened, but I’m looking into it.

After that, we went to the Bat Cade in Burbank, which is a batting cage with arcade with pizza parlor — a sort of mashup of activities geared toward my internal age (about 15). Just add comic books and it’d be paradise. There’s something wrong with the air hockey table at the Bat Cade because my son beat me and my daughter also beat me. This is not how this thing is supposed to work. Luckily, the classic arcade game Arkanoid II: Revenge of Doh was functioning perfectly well and I was unbeaten. We ate pizza to celebrate my victory, then took turns in the batting cage, where I successfully defended my head from 30 baseballs flung mercilessly at top speed.

Even though satiated with top-quality local pizza, we stopped at the nearby Ralphs (that’s the name of a supermarket — make your own joke) to stock up on comestibles. I spotted bottles of $15 chardonnay mysteriously priced down to $3.99 and snagged two; I will let you know if they were bottled in a Chinese lead factory. (If I never post here again, you’ll know what happened.) On a whim, I also picked up an 8-piece container of fried chicken because at this point I had no vision of cooking anything for dinner. Later, I discovered that the 8-piece container of chicken held only six pieces — there were no drumsticks. Which left me wondering:  had it not been properly filled by the people behind the deli counter, or had someone surreptitiously slid two fingers inside and stolen the drumsticks out of the case before I bought it? Either way, I figured I’d just eat it.

Later, I watched Downton Abbey, enjoying the latest episodic effort to ennoble a landed lord with grace and human dignity, when I know he’s a pirate sucking off the desperate largesse of the lower class; the show is simultaneously entertaining and deeply infuriating (the way I imagine the new video biography of Mitt Romney will prove to be). I also watched the Grammy Awards. On DVR. So that the entire nearly four-hour enterprise, stripped down to actual content, consumed only about 22 minutes. Takeaways:  How does one sing when swinging upside down from a rope? (Answer:  one doesn’t — it’s lip synching.) Also, now that I’ve gleaned that Ringo’s touring show largely involves him singing, I’m glad I’ve saved my money. As a singer, he’s a passable drummer.

I also wondered how much regret the guys from Daft Punk were living in, wearing those hot robot heads for more than four hours straight, and leaving the man in the Dudley Do-Right hat to inarticulately accept every award for them.

Finally, I went to bed and dove further into a late Philip Roth novel, Indignation,  that I had somehow missed when it came out. (I’ve been reading all of Roth’s new releases for years; same deal with Paul Auster and Julian Barnes — they publish it; I read it.)

Then, finally, sleep.

A friend alerted me to a noteworthy publishing offering next month: The Best of Hieronymus Bosch.

I want this. To add to my collection of books about Bosch’s zany art work.

Hats off to the copywriter of this launch. Samples of his or her work:

FOR THE FIRST TIME, THE COMPLETE WORKS OF MEDIEVAL PAINTER HIERONYMUS BOSCH HAVE BEEN PUBLISHED IN A LAVISH BOOK. SEE A DEVIL ON ICE SKATES, MYSTICAL VISIONS OF RELIGIOUS ECSTASY, AND NAKED LADIES WITH BLUEBERRIES FOR HEADS.

More than 400 years before LSD was even invented, the Netherlandish artist Hieronymus Bosch created some of history’s trippiest paintings. His scenes feature such grotesqueries as devils on ice skates; hare-headed demons; knights being eaten alive by dog-lizard hybrids; and a pig in a nun’s habit kissing a naked man.

And, probably my favorite:

He makes Salvador Dali look like Norman Rockwell.

It really says something about our culture when a guy who’s been dead for 500 years is repackaged as a “Best of.” It makes me think that the target audience for this is not that far removed from the target audience for, say, The Best of Paul McCartney & Wings.

While I have great admiration for that copywriting, I can’t help noting that this edition can’t be both comprehensive — as it claims to be — and a “best of.” These things are antithetical. “Best” refers to the upper echelon of achievement; “comprehensive” tells us that everything is included.

Let me tell you, it’s pure hell hearing every word for its actual meaning. But, as they say, live by the sword, die by the sword.

Tonight on the way home from my 11-year-old son’s karate practice, we decided on a whim to stop into the local Blockbuster video store for its going-out-of-business sale, five days before its closing. The “previously viewed” (aka “used”) DVDs are down to $1.99 — still too much, and I knew I’d find scant pickings, and I don’t really want any anyway, but I figured it’d be a fun 15-minute diversion for the two of us. And given that signs proclaimed that “everything in the store” was for sale, including the fixtures, I might find something else fun to buy.

After poking around through the thousands of unwanted direct-to-video third-tier movies and broken-up boxed sets of TV series (anyone need Justified Season 3, but only the second disc? ‘Cause I know where to get it), I actually found something I’d wanted to see: a thriller called Whiteout starring Kate Beckinsale and adapted from the comic book by Greg Rucka. At $1.99, it was cheaper than a digital rental, and a quick check from my phone verified that Netflix didn’t have it for streaming. Which I could have predicted. Because any movie you’ve heard of? It’s not on Netflix streaming.

I took the disk to the register to pay for it. A guy at the register went to ring me up. His name badge said, “Vince.” Below that, he’d taped an additional label that read, “Not for sale.” (So much for everything in the store being for sale.) My son Dietrich was also buying a movie, Expiration, a “horror thriller” with “human lab rats” about which I’m sure my wife will be talking to me soon. Vince advised Dietrich that since all sales were final, he should open the case and make sure the disk didn’t look too scratched, because even if it didn’t play, there would be no returns. Opening the case revealed that the disk looked pristine — i.e., Dietrich would be its first (and probably last) viewer. Like Blockbuster itself, Expiration‘s expiration would be imminent.

I looked inside the case at the disk for Whiteout and saw a few viewing marks but decided to buy it anyway. At $1.99, this seemed like a better gamble than a lottery ticket. Vince said, “You sure you want that?”

“Yeah,” I said. “It’s probably okay.”

“You’re sure you want it? You should probably put it back.”

“It’s fine,” I said.

“I saw that movie,” he said. “I didn’t like it. It’s really slow.”

I thought about that and gave Vince the lookover. No way to know if his tastes match mine — maybe he likes more action. I was riveted — twice within a month!! — by All is Lost, but to read online comments, some audience members are up in arms by how “slow” it is.

“I’ll take it anyway,” I said. Then, in an attempt at courtesy, I added, “I’m an insomniac. Maybe I’ll wake up at 3 a.m. some night and watch it.”

“It’s perfect for insomnia,” he said. “You’ll go right back to sleep.”

Two hours later, I’m still mulling over this exchange with Vince. Was this typical of the “recommendations” at this (and so many other) Blockbuster stores? Or was the impending closure liberating? (“Hey, everybody! We’re closing in five days — say anything! No sales needed! Nobody cares!”)

Whatever the answer to these questions, somehow the guy behind me managed to find 10 movies he wanted to buy out of what I’m telling you is the detritus of direct-to-video movies so godawful that even Blockbuster cashiers are reluctant to sell them. Now I’m wondering if that guy will ever actually watch those.