There’s fundraising, and there’s fume-raising. I’ve done some fundraising in my day for causes I believe in. Fume-raising is fundraising that results mostly in making people fume. Here’s an example a friend just emailed me about:

Lee: I haven’t been in the best of moods anyway, but I just had a phone call that has me boiling.

Every week there are calls asking for money for this and that and the other.  This one was from a guy who first tells me that a dozen firefighters have died in the past year protecting me, and then asking for assistance in order to provide better training for firefighters, so that less will die next year.  I don’t know if this guy is representing something legit or simply a con artist boiler room, but either way, to use the recent death of firefighters in [Souther Carolina] as a lever on my wallet…[expletives deleted].

I held my temper, interrupted him and told him I do not make pledges in response to phone calls, and that I found his pitch offensive.  That I did not blame him, as someone else probably wrote it and has him calling and pitching it, but that he should tell his bosses how offensive I found it, and then I hung up.

I don’t know the “cause” in question, but I greatly doubt any donation would be going directly to the families of the firefighters who died in South Carolina. And  so I join you in your outrage.

I also get outraged by the mysterious phone solicitors who hassle my elderly mother at all hours of the day and night for donations. She was writing plenty of those checks until my sister secretly took her checkbook away.

Here’s a great preview of Surface computing, forthcoming this year from Microsoft (and with a tip of the hat to the holographic computer screen predicted — and pre-depicted — in the film Minority Report). It also reminds me of two other things: the iPhone (coming soon to a belt like mine), and the tabletop Ms. Pac-Man I used to play at the Black Cat Inn.

If you’re in your 30’s or up, you’ll enjoy watching this. (Or, actually, not.) The future isn’t coming fast — it’s already here. The culture you grew up in is already gone. (But no matter what happens, we’ll always have annoying Celtic music.)

Yes, you can spend 17 months on “Mars.” Here’s how.

The host of “What’s My Line? Live on Stage” is the funny, personable — and stylish! — J. Keith van Straaten. Before resurrecting “WML?” he hosted this live talk show in L.A. Watch and enjoy.

My firm, Counterintuity, provides cool, fun, “counterintuitive” marketing and strategy solutions to companies. As part of that, we do an awful lot of what feels like playing “What’s My Line?” with clients — figuring out what they do and how to get that message out. (Which, as you can see, is much like writing and directing plays. Honest.)

So when we found out there’s a live stage version of “What’s My Line?”, complete with celebrity mystery guests, we jumped to become its sponsor.

This is about the show.

This is how to get tickets.

It runs Sundays at 8 pm at the Acme Comedy Theatre in Hollywood. I’ve seen it only once so far but it’s a huge load of fun.

Okay, it’s been two weeks and now there’s a little improvement. Today my jaw feels less like the bombing of Dresden and more isolated sniper fire.

This is an email I sent out yesterday to some people I thought were waiting for things from me. On reflection, I’ve decided to post it here because, well, the blog has been a bit slow lately. Here’s why. Read it and weep.

As you probably know, I had oral surgery last Wednesday. At this point, given the schedule-busting ramifications, I figured I’d better send out an email to a few close friends and associates.

Here’s what I was told before the “procedure” (you’ll note their choice of word, as in “something that proceeded,” i.e., a passive case, as opposed to an “infliction,” something that was inflicted): That I had a (large) tooth that had broken below the gumline, that it was infected, and that it had to be “removed,” “cleaned,” and the area “filled” with a “holding compound” until an implant could be “placed” in four months. It was strongly hinted that while the “procedure” itself would be pain-free, I would feel “some discomfort” for a couple of days and then it would be over.

Everything above in quotation marks is what we in the language industry call a euphemism.

Now that I’ve endured a full week of what I pledge to you is absolutely hellish pain, here’s what they say:

“You had surgery. This wasn’t just an extraction [you’ll note that where before it was “removal,” now it’s “an extraction” but even moreso] — this was oral surgery. We had to drill out all the broken pieces and then drill into the bone in your jaw and insert a bone-building compound that expands [you’ll note it no longer “holds” — now it expands]. Of course it’s going to hurt. The compound is right on your nerves, and your body is trying to reject it. But after about a month, it’ll all be over.”

You’ll note that “a couple of days” has been magically transmuted into “after about a month.” Half-truths and flat-out misdirection like this is how we got into Iraq, but that’s another story.

I’ve always thought of myself as a strong person not given to whining about pain and discomfort. How could any of my inconveniences compare against the miseries of most of the world? But this has been a major, throbbing, distraction. I’m taking their pain pills — a major concession for me — and that seems to alternate between having little or no effect, or making me feel like I’m going to pass out. We got new pills last night (my wife being astonished by my actual protests that I was in pain — and she’s been with me for 23 years and once saw my hands filled with shards of glass from a shattered window whereupon I walked into the room, spurting blood, and calmly said, “Hm. I think I need to go get stitches. Can you drive?”); these new pills have the added impact of making me sick to my stomach.

So:

I know I’m a little behind on a few things. If you’re someone I owe something to (a document, a proposal, a response), I apologize. I feel like I’m getting a good amount of work done most days between 11 and 3 when I seem most functional, but these half days have indeed put me behind. I don’t imagine this lag in my output is going to fill a full month, no matter what these oral surgery people say (and hey, why would I believe them again?), and I am catching back up. I intend by next week to be back in full swing.

In the meantime, I thank you for your patience.

Best,

Lee

So, how bad has this been?

• Last Friday we had the reading of a new play written in my workshop. I had to call the playwright and say I couldn’t make it. What I needed to do was take many, many more Hydrocodone (an opiate) and lie down on a couch at home. Which I did. In about 15 years of having readings from my workshop, this was the very first (and, hopefully, last) one I’ve ever missed. My apologies again to Jan, the playwright.
• A short one-act of mine is getting a revival this summer here in Los Angeles. (More on that later.) One of the roles needs to be recast. I let the director recast without me. There was no way I could sit through auditions.
• I’ve tried three times to read the same comic book. It’s World War Hulk #1. When you can’t quite follow the storyline of The Hulk returning to Earth and doing a lot of smashing, you need either more or fewer drugs. Last night, having effectively balanced the pills at least that once, I made it all the way through the issue and enjoyed it a lot. “Hulk is strongest one there is” indeed. Puny metal man Iron Man got smashed up real good.

That’s it for now. Time to take an opiate and drive home before it kicks in. G’night.

Didn’t like The Sopranos finale? Here’s how it could’ve been far, far worse. Even if you didn’t watch The Sopranos, there’s a good lesson to be gleaned here about the value of staying relatively independent.

As related here, I didn’t watch the Tony Awards Sunday night. But, as friend and blog reader Chris W. said, I would if they were hosted by Triumph the Insult Comic Dog. Thanks to Chris for sending this in.