When last we checked in, my cricket traps had caught the last of these chirping menaces. And, indeed, last night when I came home from yet another viewing of “Songs of Extinction” at the Ford Amphitheatre, I was greeted by sweet silence. A triumph.

On Wednesday night I went to the PEN Awards even though I was feeling… odd. (Odder than usual.) Earlier in the day my right eye felt pained, or pressured, as though someone were blowing air directly into it. By the time I picked up good friend and fellow playwright Dorinne and made it to the Beverly Hills Hotel, it was all I could do to think straight. I decided that three glasses of wine would help. They didn’t. Then over an interminable dinner break, which I clocked at Infinity plus nine minutes, the eye pressure metamorphosed into a drilling into that eye, through my head and out the base of my skull. Splashing water on my face in the bathroom had no effect. I wanted to at least make it to the announcement of the award for Drama, for which I’d been a judge, but the executive director was still calling winners of the raffle like a bingo caller. (Note to executive director: Next year, let’s find a more dignified format for telling people to come get the shit they’ve won.) I finally confessed my misery to Dorinne, who said, “You do look peaked,” which was all the inspiration I needed: Not only was I suffering, I looked like it. So we left. Somehow I was able to drive her home and then get myself home. My wife gave me a cupful of mystery pills — and if she ever wants to collect the insurance money, clearly this is the way to do it: just wait until I’m in agony and then slip me a cupful of pills, because clearly I’m going to down them with no questions — and then I slipped off to sleep until… the astonishing minute of 11:31 a.m.

And then the next day I was playing catchup while still feeling somewhat shaky and miserable. My wife wondered if it was food poisoning, while my personal theory ran to a migraine, given the description of others who’ve had them. Maybe it was a final late-stage attack from departing Republicans.

I had planned to go running that day to see what state of fitness I had retained from my six months of marathon training, now that five weeks of lying fallow and fattening like a goose had passed. Running pack leader Steve (or whatever his nominal title is) had emailed me to ask if I’d like to do the Los Angeles half marathon with him on Sunday (tomorrow). I shot back: “You know… yes. I think so.” I said I’d call him the next morning, not saying that that was because I wanted to see how well I handled four miles (let alone 13). But Thursday morning I was barely handling walking, let alone running. Friday morning I got up and ran four miles and felt absolutely great, so when I got back home I told the wife that I was going to run a half marathon on Sunday. Her spoken response: “You haven’t done any running since the Amsterdam marathon, and now you’re going to run a half marathon this Sunday?” Her unspoken response: “With a little more advance notice I could have bought more life insurance on you.” But it was all moot because by the time I got to my office and called Steve and checked the website for the half marathon, it was sold out. Color me disappointed! I did tell Steve I’d love to do another of these and to please keep me posted. He said there was one coming up in Huntington Beach on Superbowl Sunday. “Terrific!” I said. “When’s that?” “You’re asking ME?” he said. So yes, we are the only two men in Los Angeles who don’t know when the Superbowl is, let alone its accompanying marathon.

More things to report in passing:

I had a flat-out fantastic time at the DVD release party for “Orlando’s Joint” on Thursday night at Moving Arts. Here’s where you can get a copy of the disk. (It’s also available through Amazon.) I play the recurring character of a video director who I’m glad to say seems not modeled on the real me at all; for one thing, he seems awfully harsh in his criticisms. A few people asked me to sign their copies, which I did with the sage advice, “Do it better! Lee Wochner.” The evening was hosted by the comedy troupe Afro Medians (or is it “Afromedians”?), who were very funny indeed.

On Monday night when about eight of us had dinner downtown with Ray Bradbury I had the occasion to ask him about the health of Forrest J Ackerman, who had been ailing (seemingly forever). None of the other seven diners knew who Forry was, so I explained, and Ray assured me Forry was doing well. Then two days later, Ackerman died. More about this, as well as my story about Forrest J Ackerman, soon. (And a picture from the Bradbury dinner after I retrieve my laptop from my office.)

A lot else has happened these past few days, including the long-overdue conviction of O.J. Simpson. Just as they got Al Capone for income-tax evasion, O.J. has rung up numerous convictions and violations for things other than, well, killing people. His plea to this particular judge, paraphrased: “I didn’t know what I was doing was wrong. I thought I was having some fun with friends.” Somehow or other, the judge decided that when one holds people at gunpoint and demands objects in return, it’s a crime. Oh, that wacky legal system! I was just glad to see O.J. tearing up and begging for his life. It makes me wonder how Ron Goldman and the mother of O.J.’s kids felt when he was killing them. Just for Ron and Nicole, I played that video of O.J. begging the court again and again and again. Now, like everyone else, I’ve moved on. But I’m glad I got to see it.

What you see here is one of the poison-free cricket traps I bought on Sunday, with an unlucky venturer trapped inside. Mere moments after posing for this photograph, he was making music in the afterlife and bothering playwrights there instead of in my house.

Meanwhile, my wife informs me that she believes this particular cricket is not that one bedeviling us from somewhere in the vicinity of the mantle. She tells me this one is now hiding above the molding in the ceiling.

I’ll keep  you posted.

Meanwhile, until all crickets are safely smashed and disposed of, I’ll be outside late at night writing with my laptop.

I’m not an actor, but I play one in cartoons.

Actually, it’s a director that I play in the “Orlando’s Joint” cartoons — four times (I think) and counting. (And, unless I’m misunderstanding my character, I’m apparently a pretty  bad director.)

Thursday night is the DVD release party, and it’s somehow or other a fundraiser for Moving Arts. Below is the info that just arrived in my email box. I’ll be there in the flesh and in flesh-tone.

Moving Artists: Not only do you get to watch some cool ‘toons and raise money for the amazing “Song of Extinction”… you get to see Lee Wochner as a cartoon character!! What more could you ask for?

You are invited to:

THE ORLANDO’S JOINT DVD RELEASE PARTY
www.orlandosjoint.com

When: Thursday December 4 @ 8 PM

Where: Moving Arts Theatre
1822 Hyperion Ave
Los Angeles CA 90027

Join the Orlando’s Joint crew as we screen brand new and old favorite episodes, raffle exclusive OJ swag and other coolness.

DVDs!! DRINKS!! T-SHIRTS!! SWAG!!

*** THIS EVENT IS A FUND-RAISER FOR THE PRODUCTION OF ‘SONG OF EXTINCTION’ ***

The 11 lamest blogs on the internet.

For years, I would go to Tijuana once or twice a year with friends. Whether we were drinking in the plaza or riding the mechanical bull or touring the world’s worst wax museum or attending the bullfights, we always had a great time. It’s four years now, I think, since we went. Want to know why? Here’s why. Things like decapitation in the streets kinda suck the fun right out. 

Didn’t a bunch of us do whatever we could to help Barack Obama beat Hillary Clinton? I distinctly remember the California state party conventions; and watching Phil Donahue’s movie about the returning vet who fought in her war and who now can’t walk, think straight, or get an erection, and intercut into that movie scenes of Hillary so passionately advocating for that war; and my making phone calls and sending emails and sending money for Obama; and noting here and everywhere that her “experience” equals the following accomplishments: 1. holding months of secretive, Cheney-like meetings about health care, leading to a cumbersome and unintelligible mandated health-care system that no one could understand and that had few supporters, and which failed, 2. getting elected senator from New York off the strength of her husband’s name, 3. running a badly managed campaign for President, in the process lying about her accomplishments and flying through untold millions of dollars with ultimately nothing to show for it — except her new position as Secretary of State.

Say what you will about her, she’s got tenacity.

But diplomacy? Uh uh.

As for Obama, perhaps he’s taking his own comparisons to Lincoln, with reference to Doris Kearns Goodwin’s “Team of Rivals,” too seriously. Lincoln populated his Cabinet with former rivals; soon to be seated at Obama’s table: Joe Biden, Hillary Clinton, and Bill Richardson. (To quote Meat Loaf, two out of three ain’t bad.) Who will head up NASA? Dennis Kucinich saw a UFO, so maybe him.

Even after wanting so desperately for her not to be president, I like to think that Hillary Clinton will rise to the occasion and somehow show unsignaled strength in diplomacy and judgment. But at the moment, this feels like losing a presidential election after winning. One potential out to all this: There’s still a full seven weeks left for Bush/Cheney to devise some method of staying in power. Maybe Cheney’s nighttime rereading (and rewriting) of the Constitution has led him to decide that because he’s not part of the executive branch, he’s got no obligation to leave.

This semester, I’m having immense fun team-teaching a survey class with fellow writers Christopher Meeks, S.L. (Sid) Stebel, and Aram Saroyan.

I realize you may already know this, but Aram is most famous for, secondly, being the son of William Saroyan, and, firstly, being the (in)famous poet behind the poem that first got the NEA into hot water politically, almost 45 years ago. Here’s the entire poem (no need to get comfy, it’s quick):

lighght

That was it. If you need further time, go on back and read it again and we’ll wait here.

Okay. Good. For more about this poem and the controversy it stirred, here’s the full story. Let’s just say that some people were outraged that taxpayers’ dollars were funding such work, and even some well-known and highly respected poets had responses to Aram’s early work that could be best summed up as, “What the fuck is this?”

However one feels about that, here’s how I feel every Monday night:  pretty fucking lucky because I get to hang out with Aram Saroyan. (And, make no mistake, Sid Stebel and Chris Meeks. But we’re talking about Aram at the moment.) Whenever Aram’s lecturing, I learn more in that hour than some people learn in their entire lives. A couple of weeks ago I stirred the pot by getting some students riled up about seemingly bad meaningless poetry just so we could see what would happen. The result was electrifying. Aram never lost his cool, proved that he knows his stuff, and didn’t bother to fall into the trap of defending poetry other people don’t like. “Maybe this isn’t for you,” was the gist of his response, but the general lesson was that he’s deeply schooled in literature and language. It was impressive.

So. Onto last Monday night.

After class, we faculty members usually go drink. (We are, after all, writers.) Somehow or other we got to talking about Aram’s name — that he’s known  for these accomplishments, including the rather strong-selling “Complete Minimal Poems” (which would take less time to read than this blog post, but which will live on far far longer). Aram would have none of it. Despite his produced plays, his widely collected and awarded poetry, his biographies of the Beats, his essays, his novels, his lineage, his personal association with other important writers, Chris and I couldn’t get him to see himself the way we do. Which, no doubt, is good.

So yesterday I’m on Facebook and still thinking about this discussion and I decide to add Aram as a Friend. So I search “Aram Saroyan.” Turns out he’s not on Facebook. But there’s a group devoted to him. Here’s what it’s called:

“The GREATEST poet that ever lived”

Here’s the link.

Here’s the description:

Aram Saroyan the author of the famous award winning poem, Lighght. We come together to support this amazing man.

You can see all of his amazing work here:

http://www.ubu.com/historical/saroyan/saroyan01.html

No, it wasn’t started by Aram. Or a relative.  It was started by a young woman in Washington, DC.

So I emailed this to Aram:

Subject: OK, Aram, TELL me you’re not so famous

On 11/29/08 12:25 AM, “lee@leewochner.com” <lee@leewochner.com> wrote:

There’s a frickin’ Facebook group DEVOTED TO YOU!

And it WASN’T started by you! (Some girl on the East Coast.)

And it’s called — drumroll please —

“The GREATEST poet that ever lived”

(Boy, you’d better NOT have started that!)

Here’s the URL:  http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=18400632419

No, I haven’t joined the group. I mean, don’t misunderstand, I like you, but there’s this Shakespeare guy, and I kinda like Rilke, and Eliot is pretty good… I’m sure  you understand.

I’m standing by my debt to Shakespeare, Rilke, Eliot, and some others (Whitman, Dickinson). But hey, as Aram jestingly suggested when he emailed back, maybe these other poets ultimately led to him.

Last weekend, I did a talkback with playwright and good friend EM Lewis after a performance of her play “Song of Extinction,” which she developed in my “Words That Speak” workshop. That’s us, above, while she ponders the answer to one of my questions. It may have been this one: “Your play is about extinction, and yet even plays like ‘Waiting for Godot’ and ‘Wit’ are life-affirming precisely because they take place in this live medium. It is called ‘live theatre,’ after all. In your play, we’ve got genocide, parental death, and species extinction. Is it still life-affirming?”

(And yes, that was pretty much the question. And Ellen’s unspoken answer may have been this one: “Why did I agree to do this with him?”)

Like Ellen’s writing, her answer was thoughtful, poetic, and unexpected. Her characters are entering a new phase after the play, she said, and so are we as a species. And she is hopeful.

The producers promise me that our 45-minute discussion, including questions and answers from the audience, was recorded for podcasting and will be uploaded soon. When it’s available, I’ll let you know. In the meantime, I’m going to once again highly recommend this play (this time after having actually seen it). Ellen’s play is smart, funny, and packed with meaning, and the production is filled with terrific performances, especially by Michael Shutt, whose work always blows me away. (I have directed Mr. Shutt, and he’s directed for me — now I need to get him cast in some of my plays.) The show runs through December 14th. Info and tickets available here. I’m very proud that this production at the lovely John Anson Ford Amphitheatre is by Moving Arts, the theatre I proudly serve.

A few nights ago I had a dream in which I broke into my neighborhood comic-book store in the middle of the night because I just knew a comic book I was waiting for was finally there and I couldn’t wait any longer. So I smashed the store’s display window, gingerly stepping over the shards of plate glass jutting from the casement, and headed directly for the display bearing that choice book. And, indeed, there it was. But as I reached out to grab it, I stopped to realize what I was doing, and whom I was doing it to, and how this was in no way the person I think I am. So I left the comic, and the comic-book store, and got home as quickly as I could, my own shame following closely behind. After a sleepless night (still in the dream), I couldn’t bear it any longer and drove back to the comic-book store to confess and to offer to pay for the broken window and to throw myself onto the mercy of the store’s owner — but when entered the store I found him sitting bereft on the floor, having thrown tarps over all the comic-book displays after deciding to leave the business because he couldn’t imagine how someone who loves comic-book could have done this to him. After voicing my sympathy, I left and decided my only course of action was to mail an anonymous cashier’s check and then leave town and hope to rebuild my dignity elsewhere.When I woke up in the morning, I still felt like I had done this to the owner of the comic-book store. It was a hard feeling to shake. For almost 10 years, I’ve never done anything there except pay for comic books and engage in idle chitchat. But now I felt soiled by something I hadn’t done. To even think it made me feel grimy. Because the dream had posed the operant question: How could someone who loves comic-books do this?

Today while running errands, I saw that I was passing the comic-book store and decided to stop in. I saw Paul, the store’s owner, and decided to tell him my dream; I figured that that way, I finally would be rid of it. I shared it with him, along with Freud’s analysis that there are only two sorts of dreams: neurotic and wish-fulfillment. Clearly, this neurotic dream revealed how much the simple pleasures of comic books – so far removed from the pressure of work and responsibility associated with writing, teaching, business, and political activism – mean to me. I closed my narration of this dream with the rhetorical question he had posed in it: “How could someone who loves comic books do this to him?”

He looked at me and said, “That’s funny, because someone just did.”

A few days before, someone else in the store had alerted Paul and another worker in the store that he thought the person who’d just left had swiped two hardback collections by putting down the stack of comics he’d just purchased, looking around, then picking them back up but with these hardbacks underneath. Paul couldn’t believe it and paid no attention; after all, this was a longtime customer, someone who came in with a closeknit circle of friends, someone who came from an affluent family. But then he remembered that a month or two earlier someone else had noticed something missing at the same time this person had just left. So he and two others scoured every corner of this rather large store, looking behind every stack and every rack, nowhere turning up these two $25 hardbacks, until he reluctantly concluded they indeed had been stolen. Next time this customer came in, they asked him about it and, Paul says, his denials were so strenuous they seemed like playacting, and so this customer has been banned from the store.

In my dream, the comic-book store shuts down and I exile myself. In reality, the store catches the thief and he is exiled.

I shared all this with my wife. She often says I have low-level ESP (while I think I’m just sensitive to subtext, as all playwrights should be). Now she wondered if I were precognitive, too. If that were true, our lives would be a nightmare, given some of these dreams. But what truly interests me in this are the intertwined tales of one man afraid that through an unthinking act he will ruin something important to him, and one man who does precisely that not to save fifty bucks that he assuredly has, but to substitute for the fun of escapist fiction the real-life cheap thrill of theft.

I know: You probably think crickets are cute. Let me tell you, forget the cute association with top hats and spats — they’re a goddamn menace. I say that because there’s one in our living room that I’m looking to kill. No matter where I go or what I do on this level of the house, he is all I can hear, and all I can think about.

My eldest asked, “Dad, why does he bother you so much?”

And I thought about that. I did. And now I have a definitive answer, at least for this very moment:

Because right now I’m trying to work on my play and a scene set in a furniture warehouse and all I can think about is that goddamn cricket I have to listen to.

My wife and I have each separately torn apart the entire living room looking for this cricket, to no avail. This cricket is such a noisome nuisance that our dog won’t even lie down in that room. I have tried closing this door. I have tried going down into the family room. Like the beating of the telltale heart, I now hear him everywhere.

Tomorrow I’m going to Do-It Center to buy cricket poison. I’m looking for something irrefusably tasty to crickets that will lure him out of his crevice and leave him smack on my floor deader than Karl Rove’s permanent Republican majority. If that doesn’t work, I’m going to buy a gecko and set it loose unfed in the living room until it catches and eats its own dinner.

In the meantime, I’m taking my laptop (and a glass of wine and a cigar) outside to the back yard to write. Are there crickets out there? Sure. But I can write with them out there — that’s where they belong.