I wonder how many people are going to start saying that, and if I’m going to be one of them.

For years, the only original programming I watched regularly on TV was on HBO.

But here’s what the past two nights have been like:

1. “The Sopranos” ended. And not well. The blackout ending wasn’t clever, it was cute. Cute being a not-good thing. As in, “too cute for its own good.”
2. Then I watched the premiere of “John from Cincinnati.” My son said he thought it was the worst first episode he’d ever seen. He’s only 16, so one could take that with a grain of salt. But I’m, um, significantly older and as he was saying that I was wondering whether or not it was the flat-out worst episode of television I’d ever seen. Of any sort. Including “Mind of the Married Man.” Including “Who’s the Boss.” Including “Super Nanny.” Worst. At least these other shows weren’t self-important. If “The Sopranos” was cute, this was willfully obscure. And annoying. Deeply annoying.
3. And tonight I watched the season premiere of “Big Love.” I didn’t care for it last season, but this time as I lay there watching this I actually started thinking about chores and errands I had to catch up on in the next few days. Then I thought about switching off the show and getting started on that early. Then I actually did that.

HBO. Remember when it seemed important?

The Washington Post’s Carol D. Leonnig clears up five myths about Scooter and the slammer, presented here as a public service.

As I said before, 30 months isn’t long enough. That’s barely enough time for him to write his book before getting pardoned by Bush and heading off on the book tour.

I have to agree with Slate’s Peter Birkenhead:  It won’t be the Tony Awards.

Last time I watched the Tonys was, um, never.

Over on Slate, Troy Patterson dishes Oprah’s interview with Cormac McCarthy, missing the entire point:  Whether you like her or not, who else with this much mainstream power shines so much love on book reading? Be glad.

Yesterday I had oral surgery.

This is how I looked afterward.

In my universe of true acting talent, Ron Campbell, above, is his own galaxy.

I’ve seen him in several wonderful plays, most especially the extraordinary one-man show “R. Buckminster Fuller: The History (and Mystery) of the Universe” (which received a nice feature here). I’ve been an appreciator of Fuller since late adolescence. Despite my familiarity with Bucky and his thinking, I remember after seeing this show some years ago in Chicago walking out of the theatre and feeling that I had a better perception of (and gratitude for) the world and its potential. Whether or not everything is fixable, it is certainly improvable. And we ought to get on that.

Yes, the underlying work was brilliant. But on top of that, Campbell was utterly captivating. Unless you’ve ever stood alone on a stage, you can’t fully understand how difficult it is to be that mesmerizing. (I’m not a performer — not since my rock ‘n’ roll days, anyway — but I am a speech-giver, and I’m well aware of what mesmerizing is. Because it isn’t me.) Charles Nelson Reilly was mesmerizing in an inexplicable way. The first production I saw of “Waiting for Godot” was mesmerizing (because, as with being spellbound, I lost track of where I was and felt entirely consumed by that universe). The Berliner Ensemble production of “The Resistible Rise of Arturo Ui,” seen in 1999 at UCLA Live! was completely mesmerizing in a somewhat unfortunate way, so much so that I remember the awful moment when my friend Jack and I turned to each other at the end of the performance and realized that we had just, in effect, enlisted as eager compatriots of Hitler’s Germany. That was powerful theatre, but it also had the advantage of full spectacle. Campbell had just himself and some slides. And a desk.

I say all this because if you haven’t seen Ron Campbell, you should, and if you’re in southern California and environs you’re going to have a chance very soon. This and next month, Campbell will be performing “The Thousandth Night” at the Colony Theatre in Burbank. The synopsis:

Paris. 1943. A French actor has one chance at freedom before his derailed train to a concentration camp gets moving again. Like Scheherazade before him, this storyteller spins the tales of 1001 Arabian Nights as though his life depends on it — and it does. Solo performer virtuoso Ron Campbell plays 38 roles in this remarkable play written especially for him.

Few deserve the sobriquet “virtuouso.” Ron Campbell does. I’ll be there opening night.

Last Thursday night I drove down to bucolic Fullerton, California for the first reading of my new one-act play, “Next Time,” at Hunger Artists Theatre. The play is going to be staged this fall as part of the theatre’s Beyond Convention festival of original one-act plays that, as you can see by the graphic, “break the rules.” I couldn’t be more thrilled, especially given the theatre’s strong artistic reputation.

I’m not always sure what those “rules” are, but my immediate exposure to Hunger Artists showed one rule they’re breaking: the theatre is in an industrial park. You know: those trailer parks for business. I pulled into the industrial park, conveniently near railroad tracks and other trappings of industry, motored past small warehouses, and found Hunger Artists. When I walked in and saw first the literary manager and then the managing director, I said to each, “Cool! You’re in an industrial park!” To which each of them replied, more or less, “oh, ha ha.”

But no, I was serious. It is cool. For years I’ve been saying that theatres should be everywhere (especially neighborhoods). I hadn’t given industrial parks much thought, and now I saw the allure: lots of large flexible space, lots of parking at night because the other tenants tend to be daytime businesses, lots of potential partnership with those other businesses in donorship, sponsorship, attendance, and so forth. For the businesses, theatres like Hunger Artists can be the cool, hip kids on the block — something fun and different they can be part of. For theatres like Hunger Artists, the businesses can provide board members, used equipment, and cold hard cash.

So when I shared this, the managing director, Emily, said, “Oh. You’re serious. We thought you were kidding.”

Clearly, I was not, and repeated that being in the industrial park was very cool and presented enormous opportunities.

“You’re the first person ever to say that,” she said.

Hunger Artists, which dates back 11 years, has been in this space for six years.

Why did Willie Sutton rob banks? “Because that’s where the money is,” he said. Theatres are going to have to go where the people and the money are. We should have theatres in malls and shopping centers, street corners, inside and outside and nearby high schools that are dark at night, next to corner markets, in bars, and yes, in industrial parks.

What would The Zimmers call The Rolling Stones? How about “young whippersnappers”?

Check out my favorite new band’s great vid, which proves that The Who’s “My Generation” truly is an ageless song.

There is something truly nauseating about the Democratic candidates for president prostrating themselves at the altar for votes, as witnessed last night on CNN.

I understand that, according to some research, 70% of Americans are “believers” of some sort (including myself), and we certainly don’t want what should be God’s votes going to Satan, the way they did last time. But is this any way to choose a president? My god at the moment leans toward Bill Richardson for president, but he must be a lesser god because Richardson can’t even get equal time in a debate, goddammit.

At what speed are Jefferson, Adams, and Monroe spinning in their graves?