A friend I’m visiting back where I grew up told me he has a gift for me. He said it was one of the world’s oldest TV commercials. Which makes me think it’s Bob Dole about erectile dysfunction.

Today while I was playing that Phosphene River CD in my car, my six-year-old son chimed in from the back seat, “Dad, this is the terriblest song I ever heard.”

If the wedding is half as inventive as the invitation, we’ll all be sorry to miss it.

When I ordered the new Unknown Instructors CD, the nice folks at Smog Veil were good enough to send me three other bonus CDs as well. And now I find that I’m falling in love with this one, Phosphene River, which features spoken word artist Dan McGuire slinging Morphine-like words and sounds over a variety of talented and mostly heavy bands.

Here’s the one I cannot get out of my head. I love this. Brace yourself.

Just got home from seeing the one-man show “Loveswell” in Hollywood, where I sat directly behind Michael Emerson, who plays Ben on “Lost.” It seems he got off that island after all. (In 2009, anyway.)

“Loveswell” was wonderfully funny, and at times unsettling in its honesty — unsettling in a dramatically good way, and honest in a dramaturgically complicated way because we’re seeing the husband’s perspective of a courtship and marriage. I wondered what the wife, who seems completely unreasonable in the play, makes of this portrayal of her, which led me to wonder how she might portray him if she chose to do so. From not doing dishes, to send mixed signals about whether to leave the bathroom door open or to close it but leave the light on, to obsessing about toilet paper and his daring to breathe in bed, she seems like a handful. It reminded me of what a well-known poet once told me when I asked how his wife feels about her many unflattering appearances in his work:  “She knows how much I fictionalize.”

Given that my own new play, which runs the last weekend of this month here in Los Angeles, features a wife that I hope no one would confuse for my own, it’s incumbent upon me to dismiss all wifely portraits as straight up fiction.

My son Lex graduated from high school tonight. In August, he’ll be off to the University of San Francisco, an institution dedicated to deep learning and to helping improve the world. All these achievements make me proud. (Although I remain necessarily tough on him.)

He was one of more than 600 to graduate tonight from  his high school, which is part of the fine school district Burbank boasts. My own graduating class, from an inferior private religious high school in the back woods back East, was sized about 20 or so. This was the first time I’ve gone to a large high-school graduation, and to me it seemed only slightly smaller in crowd size than the Pink Floyd concert I attended circa 1986 when my wife was nearly trampled to death by too many fans in one place at one time. I’ve been to the USC graduation twice — once to represent the program I teach in, once to honor a grad from another program who was my student and who became my employee and my friend and someone I respect and admire. Those two times were enough these past 21 years, and no, I did not attend my graduate degree ceremony.

Tonight I saw my son encircled by friends who are already highly accomplished as volunteers and emerging leaders and valedictorians. The whole group of them, Lex included, are far ahead of where I was at their age. They are serious about the world they live in, and they seem serious about the fun to be had while alive. They looked like they belonged in a Life magazine pictorial of JFK and his crowd back in the day.

But there were other kids there, too, and my wife and I know them as well: Burbank is a small town, and we’ve been here 21 years. While no one knows where anyone might go, most of us would assume that those kids are on a different path. At one point a woman I’ve known since all these boys were newly arrived in kindergarten was ardently seeking her son. “I just saw him,” I said, which was true because minutes before he had stopped in front of me to say hello and shake my hand — something he hadn’t done for his parents. She kept looking. She couldn’t find him anywhere in the crowd, and I knew he had just breezed by, completely bypassing her and her husband. She look bereft at the slight, left to scan the crowd plaintively for any sign of the son she’d raised for 18 years who couldn’t bother to stop by for pictures. I wanted to find that boy again and give him what for.

The cover story of this month’s Atlantic Monthly details a 70-year chronological study of what makes us happy, following a class of Harvard men from the 30’s until now. Here’s what we find out:  Some of the early successes wind up unmoored and unhappy; some of the hapless wind up successful; on occasion the very smart wind up utterly clueless; many of the charming and glib and easygoing are hiding deep despair that leads to reckless abandon or suicide. In other words, there are no patterns. More than 400 men are studied for 70 years, and no patterns emerge. I was glad to see this. “It’s almost like they’re individuals!” was my thought. Yes. We make our own choices, mitigated by luck.

For some of those freshly minted high-school grads out on the football field, the advantages have been early and often. For others, it’s been a struggle. (At one point I spotted a boy I’ve known almost all his life and was surprised and gratified that he’d actually graduated.)  Whether or not it ever gets easier, the path will never be sure. The two places in which all of our paths merge are at the intersection of chance, and at the terminus where we all exit sooner or later.

I’ve been back in town two days and in those two days I’ve been unpacking,  emailing scripts to the people I met at the theatre conference, catching up on things like getting a haircut, attending graduations (one kid this morning, from elementary school; one kid tomorrow night, from high school), and getting everything done so I can head back out of town next week for two weeks in New York, southern New Jersey, and Philadelphia. (And if I know you and you’re in any of those places, please shoot me a line. I’ll be there June 10 – 24.)

What I haven’t been doing is finishing the post(s?) from the theatre conference and uploading what I think (or hope) are some fun shots from that conference.

So now seems like a good time to post this great story from the Daily Mail that I’ve been holding onto, courtesy of my friend the actor and sage Darrell Kunitomi, about elephants who won’t be refused. Here goes.

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These amazing pictures show why you shouldn’t get between an African elephant and its favourite food.

Mfuwe Lodge in Zambia happens to have been built next to a mango tree that one family of pachyderms have always visited when the fruit ripens.

When they returned one year and found the luxury accommodation in the way, they simply walked through reception.

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Let the porter grab your trunk: An elephant wanders through Mfuwe Lodge, in the South Luangwa National Park, Zambia

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The animals came in two-by-two: Hotel staff and visitors have got used to the elephants’ impromptu strolls through reception

Now the family group, headed by matriarch Wonky Tusk, return every November to gorge on mangos – up to four times a day.

Andy Hogg, 44, director at the Bushcamp Company that runs the Lodge, has lived in South Luangwa National Park since 1982.

But in all his years of dealing with wild animals he has never seen such intimate interaction between man and beast.

‘This is the only place in the world where elephants freely get so close to humans,’ says the 44-year-old.

‘The elephants start coming through base camp in late November of each year to eat the mangos from our trees.

‘When they are ripe they come through and they stand about for four to six weeks coming back each day or second day to eat the mangos.’

Living in the 5,000 square mile national park, the ten-strong elephant herd are led to the lodge each day by Wonky Tusk.

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Migration route: The hotel was built directly in the path of the elephants’ route to one of their favourite foods – mangos

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‘The most interesting thing about this is that they are wild animals and are certainly not tame,’ explains Andy.

‘They come through the lodge to eat the fruit.

‘There are ten in that herd and it is only that herd that comes through. It is a strange thing.

‘The matriarchal in the herd is Wonky Tusk, and she brings the nine others through and they come and go as they please.’

Mfuwe Lodge consists of seven camps and the base camp where the elephants come through.

Employing 150 staff, the management of the lodge are happy to report that there have been no incidents involving the elephants to date.

‘The elephants do get reasonably close to the staff as you can see with the pictures of the elephants near the reception,’ he explains.

‘But we do not allow the guests to get too close.’

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Check-in: But it’s unlikely the lodge has a room big enough for its elephant guests

Enlarge   ‘Guests can stand in the lounge are but as long as there is a barrier between the elephants and the guests that is okay,’ he added.

‘The elephants are not aggressive but you don’t want to tempt anything as they are wild animals.

‘It is the elephants choice to come into base camp and they have been doing it for the last ten years.

‘There are other wild mango trees around and they seem to prefer this one.’

And even thought the lodge was unwittingly built upon the path, Andy says they had no idea the elephants would insist on returning.

‘It wasn’t a design mistake – no-one really knew they were going to come through,’ he says.

‘The lodge was built and then the elephants started coming through afterwards.

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Gentle giants: The leader of the ten-strong herd is matriarch Wonky Tusk

‘We keep people at a safe distance. They are obviously close enough to see what is going on from pretty close quarters but we also make sure we have staff around  to make sure the elephants don’t get too close.

‘But as I said they are still wild and still dangerous. They are huge beasts and untamed.

‘We have bricks and walls between the elephants and the guests such as the counter and other barriers to stop them getting to people and if they try to there is enough time for people to get away.’

Naturally, the lodge becomes a busier attraction for both elephants and guests during November time.

‘We find that we get more people visiting us during the elephant migration because of the unique experience of being so close to wild animals in an unusual environment,’ says Andy.

‘But as I said this is a totally natural phenomenon, the elephants come here of their own accord and it is certainly a rare but magnificent sight.’

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I wasn’t able to get a photo, but the guy behind me looks precisely like the Tasmanian Devil.

I’m in Omaha, Nebraska having a fine time serving as a lecturer and panelist at the Great Plains Theatre Conference ’til June 1.

Here’s what theatre conferences are good for:

• expanding your network of good actors and directors. This week I’ve been collecting a big pile of paper scraps with names and email addresses scribbled on them.
• reminding yourself what makes for a good play and makes for a not-good play. In most cases, the not-good play could use more conflict and more subtext. In all cases, the good play leaves you wishing there were more.
• getting spurred on to do more of your own writing. I’ve written two plays in the past three days — that feels great. I got to hear the one right away, and I’m hoping there’s going to be time for me to corral some actors to hear the other one as well.
• eating and drinking on the host’s tab.
• seeing lots of other theatre on the host’s tab.
• staying up most of the night talking theatre and drinking and smoking cigars.

So while I’m sorry the posts have been few and far between, now you know why. And now I have to go shower off the aftereffects of two cigars and half a bottle of wine so I can make it to the dinner reception and tonight’s performances.

At the moment I feel very indebted to the fine people running this conference.

Some of us pride ourselves on being able to write about anything. Usually this involves having been at some time a general assignment reporter or a magazine freelancer (I was both).

After more than 30 years of writing magazine pieces, comic books, television scripts, books, variety shows, newspaper columns, cartoons, and who knows what else about countless subjects and with great wit, my pal Mark Evanier finally found the one thing he couldn’t write. Here it is. This amused me greatly.