I was sad to learn tonight of the death of comics artist Gene Colan at the age of 84. Many of us who followed his work and career have been expecting it for some time now, but that doesn’t lessen the blow.

With Jack Kirby and John Buscema, Gene Colan was one of  the foremost comics artists of my youth. While Buscema worked in a somewhat more photorealistic version of the “Kirby style” — which was, for all intents and purposes, the Marvel house style — Colan’s work was utterly distinct. His figures had a balletic flow and propulsion unique to comics. Colan was the first comics artist I noticed; I distinctly remember reading an issue of Daredevil and staring at the art and flipping back to the splash page to find out Who drew this?

Somehow or other, Colan became counterculturally cool in the early to mid 1970s,  through the strength of his work and partly because of the odd raft of assignments he picked up from Marvel:  Daredevil (which eventually saw the character transferred to San Francisco and running into the hippie subculture), Tomb of Dracula (with a lead who was no one’s idea of a hero), Dr. Strange  (who applied Eastern mysticism to fight psychedelic threats), and Howard the Duck (an acidic anthropomorphic commentator on the ills of our society).  The supple action Gene Colan brought to all these titles pulled the reader through some very strange times.

Two years ago, Marvel invited Colan to draw Captain America #601. This represented a return to the home of his fame, and his final achievement.  Although the script (by Ed Brubaker) was weak, the trademark Colan flourishes were there:  forced perspective that grabbed your attention, fluidity of movement, and pencils so detailed that inks seemed superfluous. It wasn’t his best work, but it was strong, especially given his terrible eye trouble, and I was glad to see anything by him. My college-age son read it, though, and having no familiarity with this artist, said to me, “What’s with the lame artwork?” Because what has happened in the past 20 years in Marvel comics is this:  the photorealists have won. Comics are scripted and “drawn” to resemble film. Which is fine, but it means that with the passing of Gene Colan, we have truly seen the end of an era.

I just found out that while I was out of town, the bookstore where my daughter and our friend Steve and I have done Christmas wrapping for the past four years to raise money for Moving Arts… went out of business. I’ve grown to expect bookstores to close; I didn’t realize the trend was going to take our holiday traditions with it. Feels lousy.

Here’s an ad some nutjob named Ladd Ehlinger, Jr cooked up against Janice Hahn, who is running for Congress here in Southern California in a special election.

A lot of people were offended. (I know I was: Stupidity is offensive to the commonweal.) Here was his response:

“The DCCC and Janice Hahn demand that the video come down and that I apologize! My answer: No! I didn’t kill anyone. I didn’t even enable anyone to kill anyone. And… oh yeah: suck it! The ad’s funny. It makes me laugh. So if, for some reason, it’s pulled by YouTube, a thousand will be launched in its place all over Algorez’ Internetz. Because you’re only drawing more attention to your past of supporting criminals, Janice, and forcing policemen out of their jobs for doing their duty. So there you go. Claim victimhood all you like, but how many people were victimized by your coddling? There’s a reason Mayor Villaraigosa took the program away from you. He’s a Democrat. So are you. Think about it.”

Paraphrasing Lloyd Bentsen, let me say that I know Janice Hahn, that Janice Hahn is an acquaintance of mine, and that Janice Hahn is not a ho’ gunnin’ and runnin’ wif gangstaz. What she is is a successful city councilwoman, member of one of LA’s most storied political families, and almost assuredly her district’s future Congresswoman.

That said, why am I sharing this video? Because I still like to think that if you expose stupidity for what it is, most people will laugh it away. Not to overstate the case, Mel Brooks said that the best weapon against Hitler would have been ridicule, if only someone had used it. I don’t think this ad is going to get any traction (except on behalf of Hahn), but in the meantime it does make me laugh and it reminds me to be grateful for actual public servants.

Here’s the latest in a line of spoofs of the musical Spider-Man: Turn off the Dark. Setting aside for a moment my thoughts about the well-documented travails of that show (documented here and here and here and here and here and here and even here and now I’m thinking maybe this subject should have a tag all its own), let’s discuss something else I’m on about:  PBS.

Because I’m still trying to figure out why public tax monies are supporting, for example, Dr. Wayne Dyer.  And I remain unclear how Antiques Roadshow and its ilk serve any public need, especially given that shows very much like it are on commercial stations. But now I find that I’m turning against Sesame Street, too, because while I enjoy the clip below, I can’t find any educational justification for it. In what way is this different from things on the commercial networks Sprout or Hub? Why does it somehow make more sense to fund television programming than, for example, public education? Anyone?

Speaking of people who “in the cosmic scheme of things have no problems,” I submit the current “debate” generated by Tony Kushner, the everything-award-winning playwright of “Angels in America” and many other globally produced plays, including “Caroline, or Change,” “A Bright Room Called Day,” “Homebody/Kabul,” “Slavs” and “The Intelligent Homosexual’s Guide to Capitalism and Socialism with the Key to the Scriptures,” which is currently playing off-Broadway. Evidently in a recent interview, Kushner said in passing that “I don’t think I can support myself as a playwright at this point. I don’t think anyone can.” Which ignited this controversy.

While I know that they are rarer than a royal flush, I have met some wealthy playwrights, including Stephen Sondheim and Edward Albee, and got to know one of them somewhat well, Jerome Lawrence. Jerry and his writing partner Robert E. Lee were responsible for “The Night Thoreau Spent in Jail,” “Auntie Mame” (which led to their further hit adaptation, “Mame”), and “Inherit the Wind.” Each of these was wildly commercially successful. From its premiere in 1955 until at least the early 1990s, there wasn’t a day that “Inherit the Wind” wasn’t in production somewhere in the world. Judging from his house alone, which Jerry had built on a bluff with a three-quarter view of the Pacific Ocean, the UPS man was arriving every day with boxes of more cash.

Granted, times have changed. But on the face of it, the idea that Tony Kushner can’t support himself as a playwright is ludicrous. His plays are in constant production around the world, his lecture fees are noteworthy, and I imagine he’s received any number of awards, fellowships, scholarships, and distinctions, that come with monetary rewards. (Note that I’m leaving out his screenwriting career.)

Kushner’s complaint strikes me the way movie stars do when they say about a pet project, “I did it for nothing.” What they mean is: They did it for scale (which every actor I know would be delighted to get), and for back end (which almost no actor I know gets). Jerry Lawrence was a playwright, not truly a screenwriter (although he had credits there as well), and made millions upon millions from his plays. Given all the productions “Angels in America” alone had, including the current one, plus all the productions from his other plays, plus print royalties, plus lecture fees (which are part of being a playwright), I find it hard to believe he can’t make a living. Perhaps what he means is that he can’t make the living he’d like to; that’s a different matter, and to that I’d note that I’ve yet to meet anyone, from my low-wage theatre friends to the two billionaires I’ve met, who felt they should have less.

After I posted this sentiment online, someone else weighed in with something even more to the point: “He can’t make a living as a playwright and he’s surprised? This is a joke, right? I once helped Tony Kushner move a daybed that he bought in Austria for $10k. I wouldn’t lose any sleep over his checking account or how he manages to pay his bills.”

Exactly right.

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.”