I haven’t posted on here in so long that for a moment I was afraid I’d forgotten the login.

Not sure why I’ve been absent. I last posted just before leaving for the Great Plains Theatre Conference, and I guess 10 days of constant talking and writing left me talked-out or something. At the same time, I’ve been stockpiling some things I did want to post here, so expect more frequency going forward.

While in Omaha, I led two playwriting workshops; served as a panelist on I think six plays; attended evening play performances; attended rehearsals and tech for my play, as well as the performance; and participated in the requisite bouts of drinking and cigar smoking.  I also petted a friend’s pet piglet (and here’s that photo):

I know — it’s difficult to see. That’s because my friend Max Sparber decided to get arty with the photo.  I guess that with photography, arty means you can’t see what’s in the photo.

With all that walking around teaching and talking, you’re bound to say a few things over the course of 10 days. I’m pretty sure that in one of my workshops, “Starting at the Start,” I advised people to stop worrying about it and just write. I’m pretty sure I said that because I always say that, and for two reasons:  1) whining and complaining drive me crazy and I’m especially tired of hearing it from people who in the cosmic scheme of things have no problems; and 2) it’s unproductive. Whereas freeing yourself to just write, and edit later, often leads you somewhere good. Perhaps I stressed this philosophy of mine even more than usual, because here’s the quote I later saw posted on the conference whiteboard:

In case you can’t quite see that, it say, “Agony doesn’t work. Lee Wochner.” So I got quoted. At first I wasn’t sure what to make of this, but then I figured that since I evidently said it, I must agree with it. I thank the anonymous person who posted it, and wonder if it was intended as further inspiration to others, a reminder to himself, or a combination of both.  Or, since the message stayed posted for the remaining eight days of the conference, maybe no one bothered to notice.

Courtesy of the conference photographer, here’s a photo of me in my official duties as a panelist, giving post-show feedback to a playwright. Note again the arty photography that inhibits seeing what’s in the photo.

A playwright in my workshop in LA saw this on Facebook and said I looked “very Citizen Kane-y.”

And evidently I said this, which I saw on Facebook because the playwright tagged me:  “Do what you want to do. You can have all your careers. Just make sure they’re all creative. – Lee Wochner.”

Yes, I remember saying this, and I think it was on the first bottle of wine. This was probably part of my discourse that we should “plan to live to age 120,” built around a speech I attended last year given by an osteopath, the gist of which was that because we can successfully replace more and more body parts, we should all make plans to be here a lot longer. (This did indeed go into my planning: I’m trying to get rid of things at an even greater pace, now that I understand just how long they’re going to be weighing me down.) Mostly, though, I was inveighing against pigeonholing; this young woman was concerned that people were trying to fit her into a specific box. Barring that mythic bus that may strike each of us out of the blue at any moment, we’ve all got plenty of time and options.

I left the conference on Sunday, and have been in southern New Jersey staying with my mother and family since then, at a low bubble in the local heat, humidity, and troublesome flying insects. More to come about the conference and other things soon. Right now I’m hearing myself say that it’s time to go back outside.

OK, so the Rapture wasn’t Saturday.

That hasn’t deterred Harold Camping, who now explains Saturday’s non-event in two ways:

1. It’s actually been postponed ’til October (which is good for those of us who had summer plans); and
2. It actually happened, but it was “a spiritual coming,” which means, again, that we’re still on for October.

I’m proffering three further explanations.

1. He’s deranged;
2. He’s a con man;
3.  Both

In any event, what would be truly inexplicable would be for people to continue to listen to him. I like to think that if God had something to say right now, he’d choose a better vessel.

OK, so maybe I can’t keep my rehearsals straight. But at least I know what year it is. (Granted, this other guy has a lot going on. But still.)

Last night a friend and I saw Echo & The Bunnymen at House of Blues in Anaheim. It was not a good experience. I don’t think I’ll be seeing Echo & The Bunnymen again, and whether or not I do, I doubt I’ll be seeing them or anyone else at that particular House of Blues.

Ordinarily, I like the House of Blues. Or, at least, other Houses of Blues. I’ve never had a problem with the one in West Hollywood, and last year, I saw the Psychedelic Furs at the one in Atlantic City with my friends Paul and Joe. But seriously, someone needed to call the fire marshal on this one in Anaheim last night. I’ve frequented many small, packed, sweaty clubs in my life — including the Roxy just last month for Big Audio Dynamite — but this was ludicrous. Two floors of absolutely airless rooms stuffed with throngs of people desperate to move somewhere, anywhere, even an inch. Over the course of the evening, I had accidental intimate relations with five people (four of them men, and none of them appealing). Add to this pressurized tin-can atmosphere the utter lack of air conditioning or oxygen. C’mon, House of Blues, you’re banking boatloads of cash — turn on the AC! A heavyset middle-aged guy sutured onto my right flank started texting his wife:  “Awful time. Really. Too old for this. Sweaty. Packed like sardines. No air.” I started to worry about him and wondered why he didn’t leave — but then realized again that there was no way to get out. During one of the set breaks he and his friend took advantage of a clearing in the crowd and inched their way toward the exit.

That third “set break,” by the way, was not actually a set break — it was an extended interregnum courtesy of the band’s singer, Ian McCulloch. While I have always liked the band’s music, and was eager to see them, especially with a friend in tow who is a major fan, I have to say that the vocal work of this Ian McCulloch presents not even passing similarity to his younger self. It’s not just that he can’t sing any more; he can barely talk. (The five cigarettes that he smoked during his vocals didn’t help, I’m sure.) I’m not sure if the soundman was trying to prove a point, or just curious, but a couple of times he dropped the echo from McCulloch’s voice and the results were alarming:  recall Johnny Cash’s sandblasted deathbed final vocals before his deathbed; compared to Ian McCulloch, Cash sounded like Julie Andrews. McCulloch also can’t be bothered to learn his own lyrics. And, mostly, he can’t be bothered to deliver what he and his band promised:  their first two albums, Crocodiles and Heaven Up Here, performed in their entirety. The band sounded great, especially lead guitarist Will Sergeant, but McCulloch put in a dreary first set, and an even worse second set, accidentally repeating one verse, skipping or mumbling lyrics, and, finally, stopping mid-way through the second album. After a long long long pause, the band came back with McCulloch making some apology that no one could understand, and then he phoned in the two hits they would have played as encores (The Killing Moon and Lips Like Sugar) and left. Bad evening for a good band? I don’t think so. Here’s someone else’s review of the show two nights prior at Club Nokia.  Note the criticism of McCulloch’s “singing.”

When it was over, I was just glad to be out of there. There was a surge of people to get to the door, and you could hear gasps of “Oh my God, AIR!” as people hit the cool evening breeze. One person likened the atmosphere inside to “dollar night at a whorehouse.” My friend wavered between anger and regret. I understand; he loves this band, and I don’t. On the way home, we listened to their first two albums. I think from here on out, that should be the preferred method of experiencing Echo & The Bunnymen.

I’m extremely scheduled. It is not my favorite aspect of my life. But when people ask me how I manage to get so much done, I have an answer:  I’m scheduled.

Last week I promised someone that while I was in the area on Saturday, I’d stop by her new coffee bar to sample the coffee. Which I did. Because I put it into my schedule, and my iPhone reminded me.

How do I remember to pick up my 8-year-old from school? It’s in my schedule. (And woe to me — and the kid — if I ever lose the phone. I hope he’ll have enough snacks for overnight.) Haircut? Concert? My wife’s work schedule? Even something as simple as “Get up”? They’re all in my schedule. As I said, I’m not proud of this.

Here’s what’s not in my schedule:  my memory. Because  tonight at five minutes before 7 p.m., there was a ring at my door and I greeted the nice theatre people outside this way:  “I thought we said 7:30.” And yes, I felt pretty crummy the moment I blurted that out. At the very least, I could have said hello first. To make it worse, it was correct in my schedule (and wrong in my brain), because there it was in my schedule that tonight’s rehearsal was set to start at 7 — and it’s Wednesday night’s rehearsal, for a different play of mine, that was scheduled to start at 7:30.

So now I have to put something new in my schedule:  “Remember to read schedule before making ass of yourself.”

Today in my playwriting workshop, someone whose opinion I respect said that he felt that Harold Camping, the Family Radio fraud who predicted the Rapture that didn’t happen, should be prosecuted. “He’s a con man!” this person said. “People suffered because of this!”

And I know that’s true.  But, finally, shouldn’t we ever expect that people, well, think things through? Intelligence should be rewarded, and those rewards should be the incentive for pursuing education and thoughtful, intelligent discourse. Because if we remove those rewards, we’re protecting the stupid people and disincentivizing the learned. And by “stupid,” I don’t mean the incapable; precisely because they’re incapable, those people we should help. But the willfully ignorant should ultimately pay a price for their willful ignorance, shouldn’t they?

I never thought the Rapture was coming today, and neither did you. How much sympathy can we have for those who quit their jobs, sold their possessions, and toured America because they thought these were the last days? And what should  we do with that sympathy — reimburse them somehow?

In this parade of fools, who was the most foolish? The people who will go on working for and following and believing Harold Camping, because while he didn’t get it right today,  they “have not found anything close to the faithfulness of Family Radio.” That’s just stupid.

This time last year I was bemoaning what had been done to the UCLA Live program, beginning with the termination of the theatre programming and culminating in a parting of the ways with its visionary director, David Sefton. Since then, I’ve seen scattered events and haven’t been impressed.

Today I got the new UCLA Live catalog in the mail.
It’s a disheartening document.

There’s not one must-see event.

David Sedaris. Again.

A silent film. Again.

The same mixture of “roots” music and world music, jazz, and classical. Again.

Some dance. Again.

No theatre.

The best series in LA has become the blandest series in LA. Yes, I’d like to see They Must Be Giants. Yes, I’d like to see Joan Didion. But that doesn’t make a series. Those are isolated events — and they’re interesting, not provocative. Not thrilling.

Here’s what we used to get:

The Berliner Ensemble’s “Arturo Ui.”

David Thomas, Pere Ubu and “Disastodrome.”

Socìetas Raffaello Sanzi’s “Genesi:  From the Museum of Sleep.”

Merce Cunningham and UCLA Dance doing some strange collaboration with the ghost of John Cage.

“Shockheaded Peter.”

“The Black Watch.” Which I didn’t even like — but I respected it.

Now we’ve got as little as they can afford, or conceive. Or both.

Really really sad.

UCLA Live’s new executive and artistic director, Kristy Edmunds, starts in the fall, and, as this recent dance review in the LA Times mentions, it’s not a moment too soon. Audiences have abandoned the series, and that includes me.

For a look at how God is managing the 2011 Rapture, click here.

Clearly, most of us have been buying our cellphones at the wrong place. While I don’t think that crack would be right for them, I can foresee the Apple Store’s campaign of bundling your iPhone with psychedelics.

As I’m sure you’ve heard, the Rapture is coming tomorrow (or, depending upon where you live, it’s starting tonight). I’m already making plans.

First, I’m going to take a friend’s suggestion that we scatter unwanted clothes and shoes arranged in “lifted up” fashion on sidewalks and lawns around town. I urge you to join me in this. With more advance notice, I might have staged this into a worldwide art project. There’s no time for that now, but there’s still time for each of us to participate in our own small way.

Secondly, I’d like to indulge in a little Rapture looting. I missed my opportunity during the LA riots, but not this time. I’d like to outfit a home music studio, and I’m also looking for fishing, boating, and camping equipment. I’d especially like a small powerboat with a trailer and a pickup truck. If you know the addresses of people with these things who are likely to be lifted up during the Rapture, please email them to me privately; I will consider paying small finder’s fees. Within a 25-mile radius of Burbank, CA is preferred, but I’m willing to travel up to 100 miles if the left-behind equipment is in tip-top condition. Thank you.