Last Thursday night I drove down to bucolic Fullerton, California for the first reading of my new one-act play, “Next Time,” at Hunger Artists Theatre. The play is going to be staged this fall as part of the theatre’s Beyond Convention festival of original one-act plays that, as you can see by the graphic, “break the rules.” I couldn’t be more thrilled, especially given the theatre’s strong artistic reputation.

I’m not always sure what those “rules” are, but my immediate exposure to Hunger Artists showed one rule they’re breaking: the theatre is in an industrial park. You know: those trailer parks for business. I pulled into the industrial park, conveniently near railroad tracks and other trappings of industry, motored past small warehouses, and found Hunger Artists. When I walked in and saw first the literary manager and then the managing director, I said to each, “Cool! You’re in an industrial park!” To which each of them replied, more or less, “oh, ha ha.”

But no, I was serious. It is cool. For years I’ve been saying that theatres should be everywhere (especially neighborhoods). I hadn’t given industrial parks much thought, and now I saw the allure: lots of large flexible space, lots of parking at night because the other tenants tend to be daytime businesses, lots of potential partnership with those other businesses in donorship, sponsorship, attendance, and so forth. For the businesses, theatres like Hunger Artists can be the cool, hip kids on the block — something fun and different they can be part of. For theatres like Hunger Artists, the businesses can provide board members, used equipment, and cold hard cash.

So when I shared this, the managing director, Emily, said, “Oh. You’re serious. We thought you were kidding.”

Clearly, I was not, and repeated that being in the industrial park was very cool and presented enormous opportunities.

“You’re the first person ever to say that,” she said.

Hunger Artists, which dates back 11 years, has been in this space for six years.

Why did Willie Sutton rob banks? “Because that’s where the money is,” he said. Theatres are going to have to go where the people and the money are. We should have theatres in malls and shopping centers, street corners, inside and outside and nearby high schools that are dark at night, next to corner markets, in bars, and yes, in industrial parks.

What would The Zimmers call The Rolling Stones? How about “young whippersnappers”?

Check out my favorite new band’s great vid, which proves that The Who’s “My Generation” truly is an ageless song.

There is something truly nauseating about the Democratic candidates for president prostrating themselves at the altar for votes, as witnessed last night on CNN.

I understand that, according to some research, 70% of Americans are “believers” of some sort (including myself), and we certainly don’t want what should be God’s votes going to Satan, the way they did last time. But is this any way to choose a president? My god at the moment leans toward Bill Richardson for president, but he must be a lesser god because Richardson can’t even get equal time in a debate, goddammit.

At what speed are Jefferson, Adams, and Monroe spinning in their graves?

Hang onto your lunch. Here’s the official statement from the quote unquote vice president about his crony Scooter Libby’s sentencing to 30 years in prison for his role in outing one of our own country’s covert agents:

Statement from Vice President Cheney on Scooter Libby

WASHINGTON, June 5 /PRNewswire-USNewswire/ — The following is a
statement by Vice President Cheney:
“Scooter has dedicated much of his life to public service at the State
Department, the Department of Defense and the White House. In each of these
assignments he has served the nation tirelessly and with great distinction.
I relied on him heavily in my capacity as Secretary of Defense and as Vice
President. I have always considered him to be a man of the highest
intellect, judgment and personal integrity — a man fully committed to
protecting the vital security interests of the United States and its
citizens. Scooter is also a friend, and on a personal level Lynne and I
remain deeply saddened by this tragedy and its effect on his wife, Harriet,
and their young children. The defense has indicated it plans to appeal the
conviction in the case. Speaking as friends, we hope that our system will
return a final result consistent with what we know of this fine man.”

Too incredible to believe? Here’s the link.

Here’s a little perspective, courtesy me:

1. Thirty months is not long enough. The U.S. Constitution calls for a sentence of either death, or a prison term of “not less than five years.” Thirty months isn’t long enough, but I’ll take it.
2.  If there is anyone the quote unquote vice president should be “saddened” for, it is Valerie Plame, and her husband, and the citizens of the United States, including other CIA agents who have to wonder when it might become convenient for this administration to out them as well and place their lives in jeopardy.
3. Cheney does not understand the definition of “tragedy.” Historically it is a fall from a great height, and I can only hope for more tragedy of that sort, perhaps involving Mr. Cheney himself. Arthur Miller tried to adapt it to adhere to the common man as well, as in “Death of a Salesman,” and insofar as that seemed to carry over the notion of hubris (Willy Loman, like Scooter Libby, being guilty of said mistake), then this is indeed a tragedy. I do not however believe that either definition is what the nefarious Mr. Cheney means. Rather, I think he means it is an “injustice” — which is laughable. It is not enough justice. But I’ll take it.

“Life is pretty damn good and we should appreciate it more.”

It shouldn’t be surprising that that is the key takeaway from the author of “The Road,” the novel more than any other in the past year (perhaps in the past 10 years) that I’ve been thinking about, talking about, dwelling on, and recommending to friends, in his interview today by Oprah Winfrey. The bleakness of the post-apocalyptic “Road” is a reminder and an inspiration to recognize the value of what’s here now (and, with luck, to preserve that value). I remember in the immediate weeks after reading it thinking throughout every day that nothing I would face that day could be truly troubling by comparison. And isn’t that the strength of literature: to make you feel life anew?

I should also take a moment to profess my abject love of Oprah. This is probably only the third time I’ve watched her show, but every time I’ve been struck by her obvious genuine interest in the interviewee and the subject. (Want to see the exact opposite? Check out a man named David Letterman.) Some years ago I saw her interviewing a man who had written a book called “No Bad Boys,” about helping troubled youth; this author (and psychologist) was saying that he didn’t believe in “bad boys,” but in boys who needed help. As I watched that profile and his work with some of these boys and Oprah’s questioning, at one point I was reduced to tears. Sentimental? Sure. Heartfelt? Absolutely. I don’t believe in bad boys either, and I was glad to know that someone out there was doing something about that.

Maybe part of my love for Oprah, even given my limited exposure, is her determination to fix little corners of the universe. I too think things are fixable, or at least improvable. Oprah has no room for cynicism, and neither do I. She loves books and wants to talk about them with their authors. In a mainstream way, who has done this since Johnny Carson a long, long, long time ago? No one. It’s fashionably cynical to dismiss Oprah as a sentimentalist, but like her or not, she’s creating new readers for writers like Cormac McCarthy.

In this interview, McCarthy responds in style. He’s not a press hound — this is his first television interview ever, and one of very, very few interviews in his career — and that self-protectiveness may have contributed to his simple, matter-of-fact humility and wisdom, present throughout this interview. With regard to his seemingly odd punctuation style, which some have slammed as an affectation, he says, “I believe in periods and capitals and occasional commas. That’s it.” That style, he says, is “to make it easier to read, not harder.” Disagree if you will, but his books are beautifully written and quickly read.

If you missed the interview, it’s online at Oprah’s website. Here’s the link. If you’d like to see a talented contemporary novelist untrammeled by his recent success and wealth, one who acknowledges debts to forebears remembered (Faulkner, Joyce) and forgotten, watch this. To do so you’ll have to join Oprah’s free online book club (which you can later quit if you like), but is that so much to ask? You can always quit later, and all she’s trying to do is share her love for books she admires. Just like the rest of us.

Over on the wonderful website of late lamented “Cracked” magazine, they detail the 20 best “unnnameable” character actors of all time. (They look pretty recent to me, because if you’re truly talking about character actors, how could you leave out the delightful Shemp Howard, who brightened every B movie he was ever in?)

I’ve met #19 and #1 several times (#1 is a major Democratic activist I’ve run into frequently in well-heeled back yards), the seemingly identical brother of #6 was my student (and is a very fine writer), and #17, who was in a play of mine, is a terrific actor who is great to work with.

And I direct your attention to #11, who has even followed me onto the “Cracked” website.

The LA Times’ Charles McNulty remembers his lunch with Charles Nelson Reilly and reflects on why theatre people loved him.

I loved the episodes of “X-Files” and “Millennium” that featured Charles Nelson Reilly as writer Jose Chung. And who wouldn’t? Reilly played it straight (for once), but they were entirely tongue in cheek.

This brilliant seven-and-a-half-minute clip from “Millennium” gives the history of the recently conceived religion Selfosophy. It is riddled with clever in-jokes, not least of which is naming the guru, Onan Gupta, after the famous self-abuser in the Bible.

This next clip, about three minutes, is from the end of Jose’s first appearance, on “The X-Files.” To me, the ending provides a fitting epitaph for Charles Nelson Reilly, except I can’t quite decide what it is — and that makes it all the more fitting.

Forget “Driving Ace,” the title to be had in Los Angeles is “Driving Ass.”

For years, my nominee was the distracted driver who while staring at herself in the rear-view mirror and applying eyeliner with a hard cosmetic pencil rammed into the back of another vehicle, therefore lodging said pencil in her eye and later receiving a new cosmetic accoutrement:  a glass orb. Although I never met her, I did know the police officer who arrived on the scene, saw her off to the hospital, and ticketed her appropriately. (As though the loss of depth perception and eyes that move synchronously  weren’t enough punishment.)

A year or two ago, though, that person lost the title of Driving Ass to the man I saw eating a pizza while hurtling down the freeway. Not a slice of pizza — an entire open box of pizza perched between his chest and the steering wheel, box lid up.

But now, thanks to my son, I’ve got a new one. This person truly deserves the title.

Two days ago, Lex tells me, he was almost hit while riding his bicycle by a woman who sped through an intersection without looking. She rolled down her window and screamed at him, “Idiot!” (Which he is not. Occasionally late, or routinely sloppy in his room, but never idiotic.) When she rolled down her window, that’s when Lex saw what she was doing while driving her car:  nursing a baby. Although this makes me want to tabulate precisely how many good and reasonable laws she was breaking, I’m not surprised by the behavior. If you’re going to have the baby out of the car seat, well, why not nurse him or her at the same time? And since you’re already in the car and nursing the baby, why not drive somewhere at the same time? And if you’re doing all that and not paying any attention, why not blame someone else for your near-accident (for which, had it happened, I assure you I would have gone the furthest inch to see that baby taken away from her assuming he or she had survived, and every bank account drained had my son been hit). After all, in for a penny, in for a pound.

Among other powers, the Silver Surfer can channel cosmic energy to restructure matter.

In this case, he’s changing U.S. quarters into a hefty fine and possible jail time.