Admittedly, navigating Silver Lake can be tricky, partly because the “lake” (actually, a large man-made reservoir that I ran around as part of my marathon training three-and-a-half years ago when I was, oh, ten pounds healthier) fills the district much as an olive pit always seems to come between you and the edible part and with similar unhappy results, and partly because the district traverses a mountain or two at odd angles and extreme inclinations, resulting in twisting narrow switchback streets interrupted with no warning by unexpected stop signs or the onward rush of crossing cars at right angles.

So we should be all the more grateful that McSweeney’s has provided these helpful instructions for attaining Andrew Nicholls’ house.

“The Car Plays” closed yesterday at La Jolla Playhouse in San Diego, and with it my play Dead Battery. This was my first production in San Diego and, it occurred to me just now, this was the greatest number of performances of any of my plays. Oh, sure, I’ve had plays run for months, and this one ran only three weekends — but this play was performed 15 times a night, for a total of 180 performances. After that many performances, 15 a night for three weeks, and given the subject matter — a distraught woman cleaning out the car of her dead son — and the intensity of her performance, complete with crying and shaking and raging with anger, I can only assume that my actress is now checked into the Betty Ford Center.

Today a writer friend and I went out to lunch at The Daily Grill in Burbank. The waitress was friendly and attentive, but as my pal and I made our way through lunch, she became overly solicitous, popping by seemingly every minute to see if we “needed” anything else. How was the water? Could she get anything else? Was everything tasting okay? Did we leave room for dessert? No, the restaurant wasn’t stacked up — we weren’t hogging the table, in other words — but every time I was pulling a fork to my mouth or trying to say something, there she was with yet another interruption. The capper came when she presented us with the bill, my friend and I agreed to split it, he set his credit card atop it while I was still fishing for my wallet, and she instantly reappeared to say, “Can I take that for you?” To which I replied:

“Can you give us a minute????”

She pulled a face, tried to make a joke of it (“No, no I can’t,” which led me to think that now she understood her error), and left.

And then, of course, in proving again the Chinese proverb to be careful what you wish for, we couldn’t get her back to the table to take the card. We looked up and down, asked a busboy about her whereabouts, called for her, and were about to get the manager, when finally she returned. She asked flatly if we were now ready (which left me thinking that no, she had not understood her error), we assured her that yes we were now ready, and she left with the card and with the cash I had put in with it. Two minutes later she was back, triumphant, card and pleatherette check bill presenter in her hand, thrusting it at me because the card wouldn’t go through.

“It’s not my card,” I said, “it’s his.”

The waitress put the bill and the bad credit card back onto the table and walked away, even though my friend was ready instantly with another credit card. Again, we looked around and waited and I was getting ready for the manager, but I figured I’d take the opportunity to use the restroom. When I came back — she still hadn’t taken it. Eventually she came and took it, and this time his card went through (my cash was always good), and eventually we got out of there.

If someone could train her to even out her lags after I snapped at her, with her constant interruptions earlier on, her timing would be perfect.

I learned today via a message on Facebook that an old friend of mine, someone I was once very close to and spent a lot of time with, is now, at age 47, a crack addict. I was horrified. Am horrified. I haven’t seen this person in 24 years, but have thought of him often — and now I’m going to think of this often. As you can imagine, all the ramifications of addiction have played out across his relationships, and now no one knows where he is. All day, I debated whether or not I was going to post this here, but my astonishment seems to demand it. I’ve known all sorts of people with all sorts of problems, and an inordinate number of suicides (both successful and attempted), but at the moment, this one seems most horrible. Should I add what a waste this is, of someone I was very fond of, someone very very talented?

Glad I spent 45 minutes writing and formatting that post about New Orleans — because now it seems to be gone, a victim to some “improved” or new tool of WordPress. What you’re now seeing on the page is only the very top of that post; wish I’d written it in a text document first, instead of straight into the blog. Well, maybe I’ll try it again tomorrow.

I just got back from four days in New Orleans. As promised, the music was great and so was the food. I made sure to eat crawfish, grits, beignets, blackened catfish, cajun chicken, gator, oysters, po’ boys with remoulade, and every other sort of local delight I could find. To give you an idea of how seriously they take food in New Orleans, please note the photo below. That’s right — that’s an Arby’s.

Of all the news coverage that The Car Plays has received in its various productions around southern California since 2006, I think this local PBS reporting from San Diego gives the clearest picture of the experience.

That said, the focus in this piece is on actors. I understand that: The actors are right there in the play. If they think it’s a challenge acting in a car (and it is; they’re right), that’s matched by the challenge of writing a 10-minute play that takes place in a car — and is still captivating, requires being staged in a car, has a beginning middle and end, has a motivation for the actors to get into the car, and includes a way to get them out of the car (what dramatists call a “button”). These are fun, tricky little plays to run, and the success of the series is a testament to the process Paul Stein established for figuring out what works in cars, to the producers and the reading team, and to all the playwrights involved.

Just a reminder: It’s been extended through next weekend.

For the second year in a row, badges for this year’s Comic-Con International sold out within an hour. Three of us were online and group-texting our waiting status starting when badges went on sale at 8 a.m. At 8:40, one of us was able to get badges for the three of us, and 13 minutes later it was sold out. Given the frenzy that Comic-Con now induces, this wasn’t surprising, but it still warrants attention.

Could I have gotten in some other way? Probably. I have a connection who got me a Pro pass last year; I’ve been told for years that I qualify for a Pro or Press pass (for some years, I wrote extensively about comic books; those pieces are still in print, and have been reprinted in various books over the years); and I have two Pro friends who could take me as a guest. Some of my friends can’t understand why I haven’t gone this route all along (my first Comic-Con was in 1988), so here’s the explanation again:  So much of what I do is already “work-related” (tied to paying writing work or to my company — which, again, is paying writing work) that I’ve been happy to hold onto this one thing that’s purely for enjoyment. I’ve never “worked” Comic-Con and I don’t want to. I’ve been happy to pay for the badge and support what is, after all, a (large) non-profit. How large? When I finally was able to get into the online queue to buy a ticket, I was #29387 in line. I had read that the Con was selling 60,000 badges. Total estimated revenue from those badges alone:  $10.5 million.

To give you a sense of how Comic-Con has grown, especially recently, revenue was $5.6 million in 2005; in 2009 it was $10 million. I understand there was a little global economic collapse in the middle of that, but in the depths of it, Comic-Con still had double-digit annual growth. I think attendees would sooner let their loans default and their pets die than miss Comic-Con. (By the way, if you ever want to check the IRS 990 filings by a non-profit, here’s the link.)

The year 1988, when I was newly moved to California and drove down on a lark to San Diego to attend “San Diego Comic-Con” with my roommate, is long gone. Now you practically need Eisenhower to plan your landing.

I couldn’t help noticing that Inc. magazine, which every month pays tribute to a recently deceased entrepreneur who’s made a lasting impact, this month decided to profile Richard Alf, one of the founders of Comic-Con. Here’s their obit.

In other news, I’m getting up tomorrow morning at 7:20 because, you guessed it, badges for this year’s Con go on sale at 8 (and will no doubt be sold out by 8:01). Yes, I could get in free, but I’ve been faithfully supporting the Con since 1988.

Unsurprisingly, Moving Art’s The Car Plays is a huge hit in its current run at La Jolla Playhouse down in San Diego County, California. I say unsurprisingly because the show is a unique theatrical experience, and because each time one of the plays is performed, it’s performed for an audience of two. So, yes, it sells out. Quickly.

Which makes it all the better news that the show has been extended for  one more weekend, which means it runs this weekend, and next, closing March 11. Here’s where you can get tickets (if you can).

In the publicity shot at top provided by the La Jolla Playhouse, you see Sara Wagner as Esme Coughlin in my play Dead Battery, plaintively making calls from within her teenage son’s car to learn more about his life, his death, and her own culpability. You also see a couple of audience members. (Look:  Another sold-out performance.) I have to say, it’s an amazing voyeuristic experience living out these little playlets from inside the cars they take place in, and it’s a testament to the phenomenal work of some very very talented actors. My wife (admittedly perhaps biased) cried just reading the script; imagine how it feels being in that car while this grief-demolished woman struggles to maintain her self-control; now imagine what it takes for an actor to do that performance 15 times a night. I am enormously grateful to Sara and to my director, Paul Stein, who is also the progenitor of the entire Car Plays concept. I’m grateful to them both, as I hope you can see in this shot below, taken over celebratory beers at the local bar on opening night last Thursday.