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.

This entry was posted on Saturday, December 6th, 2008 at 11:22 am and is filed under Thoughts. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.