Let me first just share the jubilation: Returning to the theatre — to the live performance of plays with actors physically present — is a cause for celebration. More than maybe any other factor, it’s the reason for my elevated mood this past month.

Here’s what I’ve seen, ranked from worst (sorry) to best. All opinions expressed are mine, and subjective, but utterly reliable — trust me.

5. “The Forest” by Florian Zeller, Hampstead Theatre, London, seen 2/11/22

While in the U.K. four weeks ago, I had only one night in London, and thus only one night to see a show, and this was what I chose. This is the world-premiere production of a new play by the acclaimed author of “The Father” (which became a theatrical sensation, and then the movie starring Anthony Hopkins), and I was able to score the last ticket for the only night I could attend. Unfortunately, in this case, the playwright can’t see The Forest for the trees because he can’t seem to make any decisions about how to dress up what is a humdrum storyline, whereby — get this — a man is cheating on his wife. And must suffer the consequences. Shocking, I know. (Especially from a French writer.) Rather than make decisions and increase tension, the writer dilly-dallies with strange stagecraft that does absolutely nothing to elevate the proceedings. Unfortunately, a storied cast (including Toby Stephens and Paul McGann (much-loved by me from “Withnail and I” (!!!) and, okay, “Doctor Who”) is wasted in the process. Full disclosure: The critics disagreed with me about this, but this is yet another case where they’re wrong. Any play in which our hero of sorts prostrates himself and weeps and cries throughout is not worth seeing. (And, no, that isn’t what Hamlet does.)

4. “Slave Play” by Jeremy O. Harris, Mark Taper Forum, Los Angeles, seen 2/13/22

The opening vignettes, portraying interracial sexual shenanigans during the antebellum South for comedic effect, certainly make their point, tangling up repressed lust with forthright racism. The ending of the play, in which a white husband finally is forced to listen to his black wife, certainly lands, so much so that I wish the entire play had built to that. Unfortunately, the dead center of the play revolves around an endless therapy session in which two hyperactive interlocutors harass and cajole three interracial couples about their relationships and their sex lives, which went on… and on… and on… to no greater effect. The (black) woman in front of me started reading her email. Twice. And I started reading it along with her, over her shoulder When the play was over, I texted another playwright, who’d hated it and was curious what I’d thought; for the most part, I told him, I wanted my 90 minutes back. He corrected me, “It was two hours long.” Which clarified something: Yes, I did fall asleep in the middle.

3. “What I learned in Paris,” by Pearl Cleage, South Coast Rep, Costa Mesa, seen 2/26/22

I wanted to see this for three reasons: I’d never seen a Pearl Cleage play, although I’d heard of her; South Coast Rep does strong work; and I was interested in a play about the election of the first black mayor of a major American city (in this case, Atlanta, in 1971). Unfortunately, the play didn’t much deal with the latter, and instead was mostly concerned with a couple that shouldn’t get married and a returning ex-wife who was clearly destined to be awkwardly reunited with her ex-husband for strictly convenient plot reasons. My guest remarked at the Act One curtain that she was curious to see what would happen; unfortunately for me, I wasn’t because I’d foreseen it five minutes in. That said, some of the cast was delightful, and I got a few chuckles here and there.

2. “The Power of Sail,” by Paul Grellong, Geffen Playhouse, Los Angeles, seen 3/8/22

I didn’t believe one bit of this play, about a liberal history professor who effectively makes a deal with a neo-Nazi but comes to regret it, but I enjoyed every moment of it. I didn’t believe that the university dean was an actual dean (primarily because she didn’t behave like one; I’ve served under deans); I didn’t believe the sequence of events that led to a “shocking” death; I didn’t believe that every character had a secret Machiavellian plot he or she was carrying out; and I didn’t believe there was any reason at all for the final scene, which adds a new location and new character. I also think that “filling in” events in the second half of the play in retrospective action just reveals how poorly constructed it is. Still, the evening provided an opportunity to see Bryan Cranston shine on stage (albeit in a role that stretched him in no way) and also Amy Brenneman (ditto), and one character’s reveal was, yes, absolutely chilling for what it portends for us. The storyline is easily dispelled, as I told two women I didn’t know while we were walking back to our cars: “Don’t break bread with Nazis.” (Good advice for all occasions.) Mostly, I think I just enjoyed taking myself to the theatre by myself and seeing a well-directed, well-acted, topical play, and in a playhouse where the melodious voice of God message booming from the rafters concluded with “Welcome home,” thereby eliciting a round of applause from all of us happy to be back in the theatre.

1. “The Lehman Trilogy,” by Stefano Massini, Ahmanson Theatre, Los Angeles, seen 3/5/22

What a delight to say that this is an absolute marvel, brilliantly written, directed and acted, an event that communicates the capitalist history of the United States for all its promise and all its peril. THIS is the show not to be missed (it runs till April 10). Here’s the trailer from the London production (which is in LA with mostly the same cast). “An epic production” to be sure.

Whether you see any of these, in these productions or others, or none of these and perhaps something else — we can all celebrate the reopening of our theatres. Go see something.

I’m now scouting out other shows.

I do my best to impart helpful insights to the boards I sit on. Yesterday at the board meeting for my theatre company was no exception, as I learned that we might have an improv class renting our space soon.

“Be careful doing business with improv actors,” I advised. “They just make it up as they go.”

Yet another organization is announcing a data breach — this time posting confidential information numbering 260,000 of its member records.

The organization? The State Bar of California.

The people whose records were released? Attorneys who were the subject of more than a quarter-million attorney discipline cases.

Think anyone will sue?

I’m at the international terminal at LAX waiting in the bar before boarding my flight to London in a bit to see Pere Ubu.

I’m having a surprisingly good pizza — the only food the bar still has on offer, from a menu that was limited to begin with — and also a Sam Adams. No, it’s not a brown ale, but it fills the need for some sort of alcohol after the 90-minute ordeal of conflicting international travel dictates from British Airways, American Airlines (who are handling this leg of it), the UK gov’t. with some very shifting rules, and a whole bunch of confusion that resulted in me buying a COVID test in England that I’m pretty sure I don’t need for £49 (about $60 today) just so that I can complete a Passenger Travel Locator form that apparently will no longer be needed as of Friday.

So, all of that now resolved, and having a beer, and feeling more relaxed, I see a man come in with his two daughters and sit at the table next to me. It’s human nature, when stress is relieved, to suddenly become generous of spirit, isn’t it? It’s certainly my nature. It’s a way of saying back to the gods, “Okay, thank you, you resolved that, and now I don’t need to cancel my trip or burst a blood vessel, and so now I wish all a hearty hello.” I glance over at the dad traveling with kids and recognize a somewhat younger version of myself, a guy traveling with a kid or two, these two looking to be 7 and 9 or thereabouts, and it recalls for me those earlier days. He’s wearing a black ball cap, and the two girls are as well, each of them with shining beautiful blonde hair and they all are well-behaved, and studying their phones and chatting while awaiting whatever they’ve ordered.

“Beautiful girls,” I venture.

The man looks over.

“I have kids,” I say. “Two boys and a girl. I love them all, but there is something about daughters.” I don’t know what I mean by this, truly, because I love my three kids equally, and I’m proud of all three of them, except maybe I mean this: Good for you, pal, in having these radiant girls.

“Thank you,” he says, with a grin.

But there’s a bit of a smirk, and the one girl asks the other something, then the middle one says something to their dad. Now I’m wondering if perhaps they’re not both actually his. Maybe I’ve misread the relationship: Doesn’t the one look a little different?

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Did I get it wrong? They’re not both your daughters?”

“Actually,” he says, “they’re my sons.”

…

“Uh. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he says in a friendly manner. “They get it all the time.”

No doubt.

Note to self: The correct line is this: “Those are some very good-looking children.”

But I don’t envision ever again venturing down this path.

The stock market was dramatically up last year, and so far this year it has posted dramatic declines.

Given the depth of data provided every day about the doings of the stock market, shifts like these can seem confounding and, even, confusing. So I thought I’d share my own approach to it.

As with many things in life, I strive for a balanced viewpoint. Having a simpler approach to complex issues generally makes life itself simpler. So here’s my approach to the stock market, and it’s one that has informed my thoughts for decades now.

Here goes.

I’m opposed to market dips when they negatively affect me.

But I am in favor of them when they benefit me.

I apply the same sort of thinking to market increases: They’re good when they favor me, and they’re bad when they don’t.

I hope this easily grasped point of view serves you as well as it does me.

Here’s what it’s been like hiring people the past year.

At my company, we have three open positions. We locked one in on Friday (phew!), but I also had interviews over Zoom with candidates for one of the other open roles. Here’s a verbatim quote from one of those interviewees, who on paper was well-qualified:

“I can get you where you want to be. I just need a little bit of freedom. Sometimes I’ll be gone for a whole week in the month, to South America or Europe. But I’ll come back.”

Mind you, this is for a key management position: receiving payments, making payments, handling HR, operations, insurance, etc. The sort of position most of us would assume requires reliability. As in: You’ll know consistently when she’ll be around. It isn’t the sort of position where on, say, Wednesday, one might say, “Where’s Carol?” and an acceptable response would be, “Ecuador. But she said she’d come back.”

I shared this baffling interview response on my business partner, whose reply was “Uh, no.” Then I tried it on a couple of friends, one a longtime business owner and another a close friend who runs a non-profit. Just to, you know, make sure I’m not being too demanding in expecting people on the payroll and healthy to actually show up as expected. One said, “Frankly, I don’t know how didn’t start laughing hysterically.” The other said, sarcastically, “Well, she said she’d be baaaaaaack…..”

I’m calling this applicant “Carol.” That’s not her real name; I’ve struck her real name from memory. Life being short, I’ve moved on. But if they rewarded confidence with dollars, “Carol” would be a billionaire. Because: She also wanted to know in this initial interview when she should start, but first volunteered that she’d “need to come by and check out the office first” for “the vibe” and offered to do that the same day, say around 2?

I was out having lunch at 2. And here was the vibe in the office the rest of the day: just me, and whatever my vibe is. With everyone else either out with COVID or working remotely anyway.

The New York Times asked readers to pick the best book of the past 125 years. Here it is.

Except that’s not the best book of the past 125 years.

Here are the books the readers picked as the second- and third- and fourth-best books of the past 125 years.

Except those aren’t in the top ranks of best books either.

Because there are no best books.

Oh, there are bad books. And there are good books. Even great books. But a “best” book? Even the idea is ludicrous.

All art reflects its time — as do the sentiments of the public.

As America again, continuously, explores its fraught relationship with race, “To Kill a Mockingbird” wins here partly because, yes, it’s so moving — but also because it provides hope and nourishment. Primarily, let’s be honest, for white readers. Yes, Atticus Finch will save us. (Just don’t read its “sequel,” “Go Set a Watchman,” in which he holds extremely racist views.)
The #3 book, “1984” is a clear reflection of our growing concern over the potential loss of the republic, the increasing privacy invasion attributable to both tech and government, and the creeping dread of getting canceled by all our friends on the extreme left for saying “the wrong thing.” Another perfect book for our times.

I could go on about the other books, but let me instead restate what should be obvious:  There is NO “best book” of the past 125 years. Books come and go in flavor and fashion, and are “lost” or “discovered” or never lost or never discovered.

F. Scott Fitzgerald was almost completely forgotten until Edmund Wilson, the NY Times and other critics revived his reputation. (The same happened with the justly revered  Buster Keaton, courtesy of James Agee.)  “Beowulf” has no relevance to my life — but was incredibly important to the people for whom it was written 1400 years ago. And so on.

What’s most important about this New York Times survey, it seems to me, is this:  that it brought together hundreds of thousands of people, including us, to discuss and debate books. The underpinning of our shared humanity lies in our cultural traditions; learning from each other and sharing those traditions holds the best hope for us all.

There’s no need to rank books by popularity, or bestow false acclaim on them. Just reading them provides achievement enough.

For what seems like weeks, Los Angeles has had epic rainfall: nonstop, pouring, round-the-clock rainfall more than triple the average for this time of year. The ground surrounding my house, formerly parched, has been hard-pressed to take any more — which is how most of the humans have felt too.

But today, there’s this: beautiful, clear skies. As shown above my house.

2021 was not the best of years for a lot of people. There was plenty of death (covid-related and not), and real economic turmoil, a worsening environmental picture, an insurrection at the Capitol that I very wrongly assumed would spell the end of Trumpism now that the malfeasants were out in the light of day, and uncertainty… about the pandemic, the future, and so much else.

Yesterday, the cloudburst may have flooded my office.

But today, we have bright clear skies.

I’m grateful for that and more: my loved ones (both family and friends), good health and good cheer and good work. And the lure of the future, with travel and friends old and new and new accomplishments.

I hope the blue sky of today augurs well for your future, and for mine.

• An artist or actor or thinker or celebrity you like will die and you’ll be sad.
• You will once again believe that there is a pattern to celebrity death, and will try to decode the pattern.
• Something alarming that we must all be alarmed about will happen and we’ll be alarmed for one day!
• You will say something you regret. (Unless you’re Donald Trump.)
• We will all do many of the same old things, whether we like them or not.
• Some bad things will happen — and some good things!
• We’ll focus on the bad things.
• 100% of the pundits and almost all of their predictions will be wrong.
• Except me, with this list.

Three weeks ago, a friend and I saw the surviving members of the Monkees in their final performance. However much my friend and I tried to wish it otherwise, it was a melancholy affair, given the sad state of Mike Nesmith, who died today.

Micky Dolenz, it must be said, remains a vital performer at age 76. Dolenz is one of the great unheralded pop singers of the past half century, someone with a terrific voice who is also a natural showman — he’s able to hit all the notes, still and as always, and his stage energy is miraculously undiminished. At this point I’ve seen many rock and pop performers in their 70s, and to my ear and eye, Dolenz is the best preserved. A few years ago I told a friend during a concert that this had to be the last time I’d see Brian Wilson, because I never expected Brian Wilson, of all people, to be off-key, and I didn’t want my fond memories of the Beach Boys tarnished. If you have a chance to see Micky Dolenz, who undoubtedly will continue touring, take it — he’s a wonderful performer, he’s glad to entertain you, and you’ll be glad you’re there for it.

Sadly, the same couldn’t be said of Mike Nesmith. Just three years earlier, he’d been in fine form in another performance, again with Dolenz, at the Orpheum in downtown Los Angeles — playing guitar, singing well, buoyant and happy to be there, shimmering with all the love the audience threw at him. Their duet on “Me and Magdalena,” absolutely the highlight of the Monkees’ penultimate (and transcendent) album “Good Times!” was delivered with all the keening heartfelt emotion required. But tonight, at the Greek Theatre, we were stunned to see that not only couldn’t Nesmith play guitar, or even hold one, he could barely stand. At strange moments, he would absentmindedly shuffle off-stage or simply wander around the stage in ways that had many of us in the audience worrying that he’d fall over; at other times, his expression made clear that he wasn’t sure where he was or what he was doing or even perhaps who he was. At one point, he cried awkwardly; at another, Mr. Dolenz had to call for him to return to the stage: “Nez! Nez! I need you for this song…”.

It has been a hard couple of years for many people. For Mr. Nesmith, perhaps harder. So when I learned today that he had died, I was saddened, but, given the evidence, not surprised.

It isn’t easy to say this, but here goes: He shouldn’t have been on-stage. When your audience spends a concert deeply concerned about your health, there’s something wrong with the event.

I don’t know how one could ever know when a performer should retire. One of my favorite performers, Dame Edna, retired a few years ago, still at her (his) height. While I wish I could see that act again, I recognize that that was a very high-wire act, filled with smart rapid-fire improv and audience-involved repartee that was doubtless growing more difficult for an octogenarian. When David Lee Roth hung up his tights a few weeks ago, I congratulated him on Twitter because it was quite evident that he could no longer sing, and if I had seen all the mocking videos of his recent performances, I’m sure he had as well. I wish him a happy retirement. Performers like to perform, and we like to see them do so… but we don’t want to see them when they shouldn’t be doing it any more, and I’m sure they don’t truly want to be seen in that light either.

While part of me is glad that I got to see Mike Nesmith one last time, and during his very final concert, a greater part of me wishes the last time I’d seen him was in 2018, when he was still radiant. I’ve always liked the Monkees (I’ve been seeing them in concert for 30 years), and I’ve always liked Mr. Nesmith’s singing and his songs. I’m grateful for all the music and all the good times. But the previous final tour should have been the final final tour.

When or if you have the chance and the interest, go see the last Monkee, Micky Dolenz. He’s still got it. For now.