Last night I saw “The Bad Lieutenant, Port of Call: New Orleans.” It was enormous great fun. In fact, leaving the theatre, I couldn’t remember the last time I had such a howling good time at the movies.

I wasn’t alone in this. Sometimes you’re fortunate to see a movie or play or concert with the right audience, an audience that absorbs the moment and bounces it back in the playing area, creating a feedback loop that heightens the experience. Although the screen and the theatre at the Beverly Center are small — not much larger than many living rooms, and smaller than most in Bel Air — that smaller venue probably benefited the screening. It was like a dozen Werner Herzog fans got together for a movie night. This audience laughed along with every bit of trademark Herzog weirdness and made it a better experience than it would have been watching the film alone at home.

And the movie is weird. Delightfully so. Closeup shots of iguanas are run against contextually mismatching blues music. A dead spirit breakdances. The bad lieutenant menaces uncooperative old ladies, molests spoiled young people on dates, and snorts every volatile substance in sight. Nicolas Cage’s energetic performance is literally twisted, as uses his character’s recent back injury as an excuse to hunch around the entire film like a scarecrow stuck crooked on his post. This is the most fun Nicolas Cage has had in a movie since his foray with the Coen brothers 20 years ago, and it reminds us of how much presence and promise he once had. The movie is filled with charms:  great character parts for Brad Dourif and Jennifer Coolidge and Fairuza Balk; a completely iconoclastic way to use music that would be wrong in most cases but which utterly supports and lifts every scene; and a thrilling nervy looseness that lends the entire film a sense of excitement that leaves us wondering what could possibly be next?

This movie calls to mind what great B movies used to be:  Fun; weird; unexpected. I didn’t realize I was missing that sensation until I came across it again. And here it was.

I got a Google alert that someone has added me to the Wikipedia page of “Living people.” It’s a good category to be in.

I don’t know quite how to lead in on this without just saying it:  I found out today that someone I’ve known for years in the local theatre scene was stabbed to death over the weekend in his home.

What a horrible way to die, and for such a nice man.

My three kids muscled me off the Xbox for an hour so they could play Call of Duty Modern Warfare before bedtime. You know, that end-of-night time when you want to wind down before bed.

Earlier in the day, we had come across some video games in the garage that had been lent to my older son six or eight years ago. Now, of course, whatever platform they were for (Sega Genesis? Nintendo?) is long defunct. But finding them did give my eldest the opportunity to remind me again that this long-lost neighborhood pal was sent away to military school after he got a girl pregnant.

So just now, while watching urban warfare from the individual on-screen perspectives of my three children, I brought this back up. The on-screen military action as played out by my children brought back the image of childhood military school.

Me: “So, how old was he when he got sent to military school? 15 or 16?”

Lex (aged 18): “Something like that.”

Dietrich (aged 7): “What did he get sent there for?”

Me: “He got some girl pregnant.”

Dietrich: “Oh. How did he do that?”

Me: “The old-fashioned way.”

Dietrich: “Oh. What’s that?”

Emma (aged 11, and notably somewhat prudish): “Dietrich! Can you just drop it? You’ll find out soon enough!”

Dietrich: “I just don’t know what the old-fashioned way is!”

Emma: “And let’s keep it like that!”

Given the previous neighborhood example: Indeed.

Like most people, I’m hoping that 2010 will bring a new outlook. Well, my New Year’s celebration last night did.

My wife had to work, and my older son was going to a party, and my daughter was going to a sleepover, so that meant finding something to do with my seven-year-old boy. I briefly considered our spending the night playing Oblivion on the xBox, taking turns in our assigned roles: My solving puzzles and fulfilling quests; his killing every monster and demon in sight because my somewhat older fingers are too slow to survive an altercation with an alarmed pantry cat. But then I figured that we were going to be doing a fair amount of that during the day, so instead I signed us up for a fun program run by the City of Burbank:  a midnight hike up the mountains ringing the city.

So, last night at 8, we and about 30 other people, including our friend Trey, gathered inside the Stough Nature Center. It was one of those events were almost no one knows anyone else; there was a family of four from Brooklyn, an older man and his adult son, a woman from Japan, someone from Georgia, a single mom and her little girl, a middle-aged woman with a leathery face and brilliantly dyed pink hair, and an oddly quiet blonde who kept her hood up all night even when we were inside. We played games and talked a lot and picked at the buffet and listened to music. And my son got to hold a snake and a tarantula. (Photos of which he proudly showed his squeamish sister the next day.)

At 11:30 we started the ascent up the mountain. The air was crisp and clean, with a brisk nighttime scent given off by the wild shrubs and grasses on the mountain. My wife and kids and I had hiked precisely this route five weeks earlier, on Thanksgiving weekend. It’s a wide and gently sloping path, more of a mountain walk than a hike (and certainly not a climb). About 20 minutes later, we came to a large flat rise that overlooks this entire end of the valley, where we could see countless lights from Pasadena in the east, past Glendale and Burbank with downtown Los Angeles south in the distance, and off to the west. This view was impressive during the day; at night it was spectacular.

And then, at midnight, we all made apple cider toasts and stood back and watched the fireworks. From our vantage point, we could see no fewer than six different fireworks displays simultaneously. There was one in Pasadena. There was one in Burbank. City of Los Angeles somehow found the money to do one. We saw one beyond that that someone estimated as originating by the Queen Mary, docked in Long Beach, 40 miles south of us. That’s what this view is like.

Then we all posed for a group shot with the lights in the distance and made our way back down the mountain.  I said goodbye to Mike, and gave the single mom a farewell hug, and shouted farewells to others, and my son said goodbye to his best friend for the evening, 29-year-old David who patrols the coast for a living and had a video of himself out in the water with dolphins and who has a way with people and animals.

In February of 2009, I made a personal pledge to do what I could to spread as little grief as possible in the world. Everyone was already so on edge about the economy, with day-to-day wonderings whether or not we were sliding into the second Great Depression, that I figured I’d do my best to let things slide, or be helpful in small ways. Last night’s easygoing, relaxed, and altogether different New Year’s Eve with strangers on a mountaintop at midnight may not prove as memorable as my best Thanksgiving ever, but it was a good way to cap off the year.

I’m off to a party and midnight mountain hike sponsored by my city, my youngest and our friend in tow.

Before  heading off to do that, I thought I’d make a final statement about 2009. Here it is:

We should count ourselves lucky.

Really.

Just about everyone reading this right now (about 15,000 people) is far better off than almost everyone else on the planet.

In many ways, it’s been a miserable year.  But it could’ve been worse, and I think it’s getting better.

See you next year.

Tonight my 18-year-old was telling a friend over xBox live that he has a date Saturday night.

My other son, aged seven, was listening in.

“You have a date?”

“Yeah.”

“You have a date Saturday night with a girl?”

“Yeah.”

Seven-year-old:  “Seems icky.”

Eighteen-year-old:  “Wait a few years.”

My son got a job today.

No, he hasn’t graduated college (yet). He’s only a freshman. He got a job for this semester break while he’s home from college.

This continues a fine family tradition:  that you should always be working, and if not two jobs of some sort, then one extra-long, extra-hard one.

My father owned his own business, which of course left him plenty of time to… start another business.

My brother-in-law works full-time for the township. While, of course, running his own business.

My brother owned one business, hired me when I was a teenager to help him start another one, and ran both for a while. (Eventually, he sold that first one.)

What did my two nieces do when they came home from college on winter break? Get jobs. Then go back to college.

In one form or another, I’ve run a business since I was 11. My first business was selling comic-books through the mail. At the same time, I was sending things off to magazines to get printed. (Well, actually, to get rejected.) Eventually, I got better at both; at least, I like to think so. Now I run my company, I write and direct, and I teach. How many jobs is that? Or, given the advent of technology that makes work ever available, perhaps we should consider that we’re at a stage where we should stop thinking in terms of “jobs” and start thinking about effort — and which efforts pay, and which don’t. (It’s worth noting that efficiency expert David Allen doesn’t distinguish between things that are “work” or “fun” — each is still a time commitment that must be checked off.)

So now my son, who will be here only through mid-January before heading back to college, has gotten a job canvassing for a group that fundraises for AIDS Project LA. Although it’s not his first job, it was his first job interview, and he nailed it. He should be proud; I know I am. His first job was with my company, Counterintuity, where he worked for a year. No, it wasn’t pure nepotism; first, he volunteered here at our client open house, then when he said he’d like to work here, I made him go see my partner and apply. She decided to hire him, and I don’t think she regretted it later. (Or I would have been sure to tell him.) So I guess that’s two job interviews of sorts that he nailed. Good for him, because there will be more in his future. And probably a business or two as well.

I wish I could see this production in New York, which promises much sweet sorrow:  a production of “Romeo and Juliet” — cobbled together from people’s (false) recollections of how the play goes.

If it’s true that “War is Over (If You Want It),” then surely “Recession is Over (If You Want It),” because wars are hard to end. Either that, or John and Yoko were wrong, and we have to get that song off the radio because it is seriously misleading people — just like all the love songs do.