Remembrances of 2025
In January, I was in Costa Rica with my lovely fiancée while massive fires were burning down whole sections of Los Angeles. By the time we returned, the smoke had cleared. The growing impact of climate change made me appreciate Costa Rica’s strong environmental protections all the more. Were it not for my addiction to theatre (and other cultural addictions), I could see living in Costa Rica — or perhaps buying a second home some day. The people were friendly and welcoming, the food spectacular, the costs low, and the beaches and jungle and ATV-riding and zip-lining and coffee-making, and sloth-spotting and so much more were purely delightful.
A definite highlight: helping a client win a major battle in a public forum against a much larger opponent, in a case that pitted real stalwarts of the community against well-funded and much larger carpetbagger. Sometimes, the good guys and the right people win. That I accidentally got the closing public comment and improvised a new insight that helped to nail the argument just made it more delicious.
Well, losing David Thomas of Pere Ubu while I was at a resort in the Bahamas in April certainly put a damper on the trip. It would’ve been far more convenient if he’d died in, oh, never. Honestly, I think about him almost every day since. But at least there’s a new (final?) Pere Ubu album coming out in 2026, and a documentary.
My cousin Rick (“Ricky,” even at age 70-something) died this month down in Texas. I’m not sure I ever met him, he being the age of my older siblings and they having palled around a bit while growing up and while these elders siblings were visiting Johnstown, PA, where my mother’s family was from. But his dying gave me a jolt of insight about something: Because I’m the youngest of the youngest, my mother having been the youngest surviving child of her father’s 12 children*, and because I’m significantly younger than my siblings, I will likely be the last surviving family member of my cohort. That was an odd insight. I’ve not been much for staying in touch, which hit home when at first I thought I had just one cousin left, then realized I had another, then added up at least six (one farther north in California, one in Texas, three I think still in Johnstown, and one in a midwestern state like Minnesota or Wisconsin). It was my eldest brother who did the family tree, and that well-documented draft ended with the birth of my first child. In the 30+ years since then, I’ve had two more children and gotten a divorce, our mother has died as have the final aunts and uncles, plus many more changes, of course. One knows these things intellectually, but it’s different seeing them on paper — or having it occur to you while you’re driving across town and you’re wondering why the death of a cousin you’d never met keeps rustling around in your mind; because: it’s hit you that whole branches of the tree are falling to the ground, and at some point it’ll be the one you’re standing on.
And, of course, my friend Ken died.
When I was 11, my mother insisted to my father that we move someplace where I could have friends, there being no friends where we were living out on a highway, and commuting to school by car. Suddenly, I had friends: the boy on the corner, and the boy next door, and the boy across the street. A few weeks ago, the mother of the boy across the street died. Suddenly, I take it. I was sorry to see it. When I was 12 or 13 or so, I was innocently in love with her. At least once, I went over there when I knew that my friend wouldn’t be home, and hung out in the kitchen with her until finally she gently let me know he wasn’t coming home soon and maybe I should go home, which I did, dejectedly. I don’t know what I thought would happen, but whatever it was, I was sure hoping for it. Ten years ago, she reached out to me to say hi, to say that she was a reader of my blog, and that my kids looked very much like me and very “Wochner,” and that she was 83 and might be saying too much because she was on her second glass of wine and please excuse the typos. So: just as charming as she was when I was a kid. After that, we started commenting on each others’ posts, and emailing now and then, and I’m glad we stayed in touch. I really liked her, and a long time ago, I really really liked her. And I still like her sons (haven’t seen the daughters in more than 40 years).
In November I finished draft five (or six?) of my latest full-length play, a play so full-length that a director who read it for me suggested that I cut 30 or so pages. I started to do that… then stopped. Maybe I need some distance. Sometimes I finish writing a play straight through, sometimes I finish a draft (or six) and set it aside and write another one and then come back. Worst case: Five or 10 years ago, I wrote a play, then completely rewrote it (setting aside the original draft), then rewrote it again. Now all three versions just sit on my laptop (and backed up in the cloud). Other times, I’ve dusted one off and wrapped it up and sent it out and gotten it produced. We’ll see what happens with this one. But: I finished it. It’s good to finish things.
Last year, I was elected to the board of the Hollywood Community Foundation, and this year we started giving away more money. I was beyond thrilled when we initiated a new granting project and, among the new grantees, we decided to give money to two theatre initiatives, that I joined in advocating for. This is the second foundation board I’ve served on, and after decades of asking for money for various nonprofits, it’s been nice to be on the side of the table where we’re giving money away.
Finally, Moving Arts, for which I was founding artistic director in 1992, had a banner year. When a lot of theatres in Los Angeles were cutting back due to slumping attendance and rising costs, our management team, with support from our board and a lot of partners and supporters, found a way to do more than before. We did I think six productions, initiated a couple of new programs, and created the Arts Hero Award, bestowing the first such award to someone very deserving indeed. And we had a lot of fun getting together for opening nights and whatnot. It’s been a challenging year for nonprofits, but some are taking a fresh look at how they’re doing things and succeeding with new ways of operating, because they understand that 2025 was not like 2019, and 2019 is not coming back.
There were 365 days in 2025, and so, far more experiences than these eight that just came to mind. I’m sure once I post this and head downstairs to make dinner one after another thing I should’ve mentioned will come to me. In the meantime, I wish the best for you and your loved ones in 2026.