This afternoon I was telling one of our children that my wife and I do our best to raise him and his siblings to be strong and to be ethical. We think these things are linked.

Later while walking back from a backyard birthday party I got to thinking about those ties between strength and ethics, and for some reason the following questions popped into my head. As you’ll see, I think that those we would consider among the strongest and most ethical are self-sabotaging (somewhat in the vein of the Greek gods). It’s a shame Freud didn’t live to examine this more closely.

Perhaps you have non-clinical answers to these questions:

1. What is the benefit of an invisible plane, when everyone can see you inside it? Moreover, since you can fly (or “ride air currents”), why do you need it? Are you just presenting a target to evil superscientists who would try to shoot you down? If you have the technology to make an invisible plane, why don’t you employ the same technology to make yourself invisible?

2. If you’re the Flash and can run around the Earth seven times in one second, why turtle around with a motorcycle? Especially since the moment you get onto the motorcycle, you’ve effectively robbed yourself of all your special abilities. Is this the sign of a condition similar to the one that leads some people to get a healthy limb amputated so they can feel more hindered?

3. If you’re Spider-Man, why do you need a Spider Buggy, especially one that isn’t large enough to carry anything but yourself, doesn’t have any weaponry or armor, and that can’t get into places in the city that you can? And where would you park it in Manhattan? And how long would it last there, given that it’s always going to be unlocked and is clearly identified as yours? Are you self-defeating — and given how often you’ve gone up solo against the Sinister Six without once asking for any help from the Human Torch or any of your buddies in the Avengers, I would have to think so — or are you really just this stupid?

Whatever theories might explain this aberrant behavior, clearly, super powers are not a sign of personal strength.

I love actors.

But this video reminds me why I never wanted to be one.

#1: The robot from “Lost in Space.” (And check out the price. Danger, Will Robinson!)

When last we checked in, my cricket traps had caught the last of these chirping menaces. And, indeed, last night when I came home from yet another viewing of “Songs of Extinction” at the Ford Amphitheatre, I was greeted by sweet silence. A triumph.

On Wednesday night I went to the PEN Awards even though I was feeling… odd. (Odder than usual.) Earlier in the day my right eye felt pained, or pressured, as though someone were blowing air directly into it. By the time I picked up good friend and fellow playwright Dorinne and made it to the Beverly Hills Hotel, it was all I could do to think straight. I decided that three glasses of wine would help. They didn’t. Then over an interminable dinner break, which I clocked at Infinity plus nine minutes, the eye pressure metamorphosed into a drilling into that eye, through my head and out the base of my skull. Splashing water on my face in the bathroom had no effect. I wanted to at least make it to the announcement of the award for Drama, for which I’d been a judge, but the executive director was still calling winners of the raffle like a bingo caller. (Note to executive director: Next year, let’s find a more dignified format for telling people to come get the shit they’ve won.) I finally confessed my misery to Dorinne, who said, “You do look peaked,” which was all the inspiration I needed: Not only was I suffering, I looked like it. So we left. Somehow I was able to drive her home and then get myself home. My wife gave me a cupful of mystery pills — and if she ever wants to collect the insurance money, clearly this is the way to do it: just wait until I’m in agony and then slip me a cupful of pills, because clearly I’m going to down them with no questions — and then I slipped off to sleep until… the astonishing minute of 11:31 a.m.

And then the next day I was playing catchup while still feeling somewhat shaky and miserable. My wife wondered if it was food poisoning, while my personal theory ran to a migraine, given the description of others who’ve had them. Maybe it was a final late-stage attack from departing Republicans.

I had planned to go running that day to see what state of fitness I had retained from my six months of marathon training, now that five weeks of lying fallow and fattening like a goose had passed. Running pack leader Steve (or whatever his nominal title is) had emailed me to ask if I’d like to do the Los Angeles half marathon with him on Sunday (tomorrow). I shot back: “You know… yes. I think so.” I said I’d call him the next morning, not saying that that was because I wanted to see how well I handled four miles (let alone 13). But Thursday morning I was barely handling walking, let alone running. Friday morning I got up and ran four miles and felt absolutely great, so when I got back home I told the wife that I was going to run a half marathon on Sunday. Her spoken response: “You haven’t done any running since the Amsterdam marathon, and now you’re going to run a half marathon this Sunday?” Her unspoken response: “With a little more advance notice I could have bought more life insurance on you.” But it was all moot because by the time I got to my office and called Steve and checked the website for the half marathon, it was sold out. Color me disappointed! I did tell Steve I’d love to do another of these and to please keep me posted. He said there was one coming up in Huntington Beach on Superbowl Sunday. “Terrific!” I said. “When’s that?” “You’re asking ME?” he said. So yes, we are the only two men in Los Angeles who don’t know when the Superbowl is, let alone its accompanying marathon.

More things to report in passing:

I had a flat-out fantastic time at the DVD release party for “Orlando’s Joint” on Thursday night at Moving Arts. Here’s where you can get a copy of the disk. (It’s also available through Amazon.) I play the recurring character of a video director who I’m glad to say seems not modeled on the real me at all; for one thing, he seems awfully harsh in his criticisms. A few people asked me to sign their copies, which I did with the sage advice, “Do it better! Lee Wochner.” The evening was hosted by the comedy troupe Afro Medians (or is it “Afromedians”?), who were very funny indeed.

On Monday night when about eight of us had dinner downtown with Ray Bradbury I had the occasion to ask him about the health of Forrest J Ackerman, who had been ailing (seemingly forever). None of the other seven diners knew who Forry was, so I explained, and Ray assured me Forry was doing well. Then two days later, Ackerman died. More about this, as well as my story about Forrest J Ackerman, soon. (And a picture from the Bradbury dinner after I retrieve my laptop from my office.)

A lot else has happened these past few days, including the long-overdue conviction of O.J. Simpson. Just as they got Al Capone for income-tax evasion, O.J. has rung up numerous convictions and violations for things other than, well, killing people. His plea to this particular judge, paraphrased: “I didn’t know what I was doing was wrong. I thought I was having some fun with friends.” Somehow or other, the judge decided that when one holds people at gunpoint and demands objects in return, it’s a crime. Oh, that wacky legal system! I was just glad to see O.J. tearing up and begging for his life. It makes me wonder how Ron Goldman and the mother of O.J.’s kids felt when he was killing them. Just for Ron and Nicole, I played that video of O.J. begging the court again and again and again. Now, like everyone else, I’ve moved on. But I’m glad I got to see it.

What you see here is one of the poison-free cricket traps I bought on Sunday, with an unlucky venturer trapped inside. Mere moments after posing for this photograph, he was making music in the afterlife and bothering playwrights there instead of in my house.

Meanwhile, my wife informs me that she believes this particular cricket is not that one bedeviling us from somewhere in the vicinity of the mantle. She tells me this one is now hiding above the molding in the ceiling.

I’ll keep  you posted.

Meanwhile, until all crickets are safely smashed and disposed of, I’ll be outside late at night writing with my laptop.

I’m not an actor, but I play one in cartoons.

Actually, it’s a director that I play in the “Orlando’s Joint” cartoons — four times (I think) and counting. (And, unless I’m misunderstanding my character, I’m apparently a pretty  bad director.)

Thursday night is the DVD release party, and it’s somehow or other a fundraiser for Moving Arts. Below is the info that just arrived in my email box. I’ll be there in the flesh and in flesh-tone.

Moving Artists: Not only do you get to watch some cool ‘toons and raise money for the amazing “Song of Extinction”… you get to see Lee Wochner as a cartoon character!! What more could you ask for?

You are invited to:

THE ORLANDO’S JOINT DVD RELEASE PARTY
www.orlandosjoint.com

When: Thursday December 4 @ 8 PM

Where: Moving Arts Theatre
1822 Hyperion Ave
Los Angeles CA 90027

Join the Orlando’s Joint crew as we screen brand new and old favorite episodes, raffle exclusive OJ swag and other coolness.

DVDs!! DRINKS!! T-SHIRTS!! SWAG!!

*** THIS EVENT IS A FUND-RAISER FOR THE PRODUCTION OF ‘SONG OF EXTINCTION’ ***

The 11 lamest blogs on the internet.

For years, I would go to Tijuana once or twice a year with friends. Whether we were drinking in the plaza or riding the mechanical bull or touring the world’s worst wax museum or attending the bullfights, we always had a great time. It’s four years now, I think, since we went. Want to know why? Here’s why. Things like decapitation in the streets kinda suck the fun right out. 

Didn’t a bunch of us do whatever we could to help Barack Obama beat Hillary Clinton? I distinctly remember the California state party conventions; and watching Phil Donahue’s movie about the returning vet who fought in her war and who now can’t walk, think straight, or get an erection, and intercut into that movie scenes of Hillary so passionately advocating for that war; and my making phone calls and sending emails and sending money for Obama; and noting here and everywhere that her “experience” equals the following accomplishments: 1. holding months of secretive, Cheney-like meetings about health care, leading to a cumbersome and unintelligible mandated health-care system that no one could understand and that had few supporters, and which failed, 2. getting elected senator from New York off the strength of her husband’s name, 3. running a badly managed campaign for President, in the process lying about her accomplishments and flying through untold millions of dollars with ultimately nothing to show for it — except her new position as Secretary of State.

Say what you will about her, she’s got tenacity.

But diplomacy? Uh uh.

As for Obama, perhaps he’s taking his own comparisons to Lincoln, with reference to Doris Kearns Goodwin’s “Team of Rivals,” too seriously. Lincoln populated his Cabinet with former rivals; soon to be seated at Obama’s table: Joe Biden, Hillary Clinton, and Bill Richardson. (To quote Meat Loaf, two out of three ain’t bad.) Who will head up NASA? Dennis Kucinich saw a UFO, so maybe him.

Even after wanting so desperately for her not to be president, I like to think that Hillary Clinton will rise to the occasion and somehow show unsignaled strength in diplomacy and judgment. But at the moment, this feels like losing a presidential election after winning. One potential out to all this: There’s still a full seven weeks left for Bush/Cheney to devise some method of staying in power. Maybe Cheney’s nighttime rereading (and rewriting) of the Constitution has led him to decide that because he’s not part of the executive branch, he’s got no obligation to leave.

This semester, I’m having immense fun team-teaching a survey class with fellow writers Christopher Meeks, S.L. (Sid) Stebel, and Aram Saroyan.

I realize you may already know this, but Aram is most famous for, secondly, being the son of William Saroyan, and, firstly, being the (in)famous poet behind the poem that first got the NEA into hot water politically, almost 45 years ago. Here’s the entire poem (no need to get comfy, it’s quick):

lighght

That was it. If you need further time, go on back and read it again and we’ll wait here.

Okay. Good. For more about this poem and the controversy it stirred, here’s the full story. Let’s just say that some people were outraged that taxpayers’ dollars were funding such work, and even some well-known and highly respected poets had responses to Aram’s early work that could be best summed up as, “What the fuck is this?”

However one feels about that, here’s how I feel every Monday night:  pretty fucking lucky because I get to hang out with Aram Saroyan. (And, make no mistake, Sid Stebel and Chris Meeks. But we’re talking about Aram at the moment.) Whenever Aram’s lecturing, I learn more in that hour than some people learn in their entire lives. A couple of weeks ago I stirred the pot by getting some students riled up about seemingly bad meaningless poetry just so we could see what would happen. The result was electrifying. Aram never lost his cool, proved that he knows his stuff, and didn’t bother to fall into the trap of defending poetry other people don’t like. “Maybe this isn’t for you,” was the gist of his response, but the general lesson was that he’s deeply schooled in literature and language. It was impressive.

So. Onto last Monday night.

After class, we faculty members usually go drink. (We are, after all, writers.) Somehow or other we got to talking about Aram’s name — that he’s known  for these accomplishments, including the rather strong-selling “Complete Minimal Poems” (which would take less time to read than this blog post, but which will live on far far longer). Aram would have none of it. Despite his produced plays, his widely collected and awarded poetry, his biographies of the Beats, his essays, his novels, his lineage, his personal association with other important writers, Chris and I couldn’t get him to see himself the way we do. Which, no doubt, is good.

So yesterday I’m on Facebook and still thinking about this discussion and I decide to add Aram as a Friend. So I search “Aram Saroyan.” Turns out he’s not on Facebook. But there’s a group devoted to him. Here’s what it’s called:

“The GREATEST poet that ever lived”

Here’s the link.

Here’s the description:

Aram Saroyan the author of the famous award winning poem, Lighght. We come together to support this amazing man.

You can see all of his amazing work here:

http://www.ubu.com/historical/saroyan/saroyan01.html

No, it wasn’t started by Aram. Or a relative.  It was started by a young woman in Washington, DC.

So I emailed this to Aram:

Subject: OK, Aram, TELL me you’re not so famous

On 11/29/08 12:25 AM, “lee@leewochner.com” <lee@leewochner.com> wrote:

There’s a frickin’ Facebook group DEVOTED TO YOU!

And it WASN’T started by you! (Some girl on the East Coast.)

And it’s called — drumroll please —

“The GREATEST poet that ever lived”

(Boy, you’d better NOT have started that!)

Here’s the URL:  http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=18400632419

No, I haven’t joined the group. I mean, don’t misunderstand, I like you, but there’s this Shakespeare guy, and I kinda like Rilke, and Eliot is pretty good… I’m sure  you understand.

I’m standing by my debt to Shakespeare, Rilke, Eliot, and some others (Whitman, Dickinson). But hey, as Aram jestingly suggested when he emailed back, maybe these other poets ultimately led to him.