The Best Weekend In The Best City On Earth.

As much as I’m a chain eater nowadays, there was a time when I barely snacked. I remember my pediatrician telling me if I wanted to grow up to be tall, I’d better increase my calories. I didn’t, and wound up 5’10”.

It’s the biggest regret of my life. And I once made love to Kathy Hilton.

If I’d listened to the man, I’d be more than just a spectator at the 6-man volleyball tournament this weekend. Don’t get me wrong – I’ll still thoroughly enjoy.

I got an email yesterday from a cool dude named Duncan, who plays for my favorite team, Team Fletch. He came across my entry from last year about the tourney, and sent a nice shout-out. Duncan, by the way, hit not only the genetic but the vocational lottery; he works for ILM, George Lucas's visual effects firm. He just got back from Prague, and will be working on Iron Man 2. Bastard.

This is also the weekend in which Petey gets to make up for all the times he vomits on my bed, by being the ultimate volleyball chick magnet.

We’ll be courtside. Stop by and say hi.

New Levels Of Scumbaggery: An Ongoing Series.

After browsing through recent acting breakdowns – our version of classified ads – I would like to publicly apologize to all previously-bashed reality shows for all the times I accused them of being shamefully despicable. Clearly, I didn't know from despicable.

Your witness:

MALE LOOKING TO PROPOSE / No Union Affiliation / Featured / Male / All Ethnicities / 28-35
Searching for a male who is looking to propose to his girlfriend. Must be outgoing and willing to work two full days with no pay. It's a way to get your face in front of a huge production company.


Forget proposing via the jumbotron at Dodger Stadium, douschey, attention-deprived guys – you can do better.

And which, exactly, is more degrading: being paid to have your proposal orchestrated and filmed? Or not being paid to have your proposal orchestrated and filmed? Also, this “huge” production company you’ll be getting your face in front of is apparently non-profit.

How do I plan on eliminating all reality shows from existence? One at a time, my friends. One at a time.

Manja. Manja ‘Til You Can’t Manja No More.

There seems to be a myth in this city, mostly propagated by transplanted New Yorkers, that LA just doesn’t offer good pizza. And to these people from the old neighborhood I say kiss my white ass.

Or, for a tastier treat, head over to Enzo’s in Westwood. Just off the UCLA campus, Enzo’s is the real thing. They ship water in from the NY Water Bottling Company and make a damn good pizza.

And the place has the perfect atmosphere. Still-shots from The Godfather line the walls, mostly featuring the character Luca Brasi. When I asked the owner why, he had a very cool answer: Lenny Montana, who played Luca, was his father. Bonus points to the guy who has a framed pic of his dad being strangled at his workplace.

The Sinatra painting you see above was done for the owner by a friend of Joe Pesci. He claimed the guy finished it in 20 minutes. I didn’t delve into why speed was an essential element to fine art; a contract hit on me right now is the last thing I need.

Enzo’s offers a ginormous 23” pie, which I finished off with two friends the other day. Normally, I’m hungry every minute of every hour, but after chowing down this monster for lunch, I couldn’t eat dinner until 10 p.m.

Dammit, now I’m hungry again. If I keep hitting Enzo’s like this, I’m gonna have to get fitted for some of those Barry O. mom jeans.

Naming Wrongs.

Memo to expecting parents: be careful. Name your son Lynn, and he'd better grow up to be a hall of famer for the Steelers, or else he’s in for a lifetime of ass-kickings.

Studio execs should be just as prudent. Name a film The Ugly Truth, and you’re seriously asking for it. I did a search and found these reviews:

“The truth about it is ugly indeed.”
-Michael Phillips, Chicago Tribune

“Ugly is, indeed, the word for any comedy that manages to insult both its cast and audience with nearly every scene.”
-Elizabeth Weitzman, New York Daily News

“The ugly truth about The Ugly Truth is the fact that it could have been a whole lot funnier.”
-Amy Biancolli, Houston Chronicle

“You can’t handle this truth!”
-Lou Lemenick, New York Post

“The truth is this movie is ugly, in spirit and execution.”
-Tom Maurstad, Dallas Morning News

“The real ugly truth about The Ugly Truth is how starkly it illustrates the decline for Hollywood comedies.”
-Jason Anderson, Toronto Star

“Trite and utterly predictable? Ain't that The Ugly Truth.”
-Claudia Puig, USA Today

“If the movie had even a moment of freshness or wit or one honest laugh. It doesn’t—and that’s the ugly truth.”
-Joanne Kaufman, The Wall Street Journal

“The Ugly Truth feels more ugly than true, and predictable in everything except its level of crassness.”
-Liam Lacey, Toronto Globe and Mail

“A cynical, clumsy, aptly-titled attempt to cross the female-oriented romantic comedy with the male-oriented gross-out comedy that is interesting on several levels, none having to do with cinema.”
-Manohla Dargis, New York Times

“The Ugly Truth is ugly yes, funny no.”
-Eric D. Snider, film.com

“The Ugly Truth? That's half right.”
-Bill Goodykoontz, The Arizona Republic

“Toss this ugly-ass crap to the curb, along with the other multiplex garbage, and see a romance that gets it right.”
Peter Travers, Rolling Stone


It's official: I MUST see this film. Twice.

Festivus, Part XXIV.

When I was a baby, laying in my crib, my dad looked down at me and dreamed that someday his son would grow up to write and star in a film that was accepted into 24 festivals.

That, or become a podiatrist. Tomato, tomahto.

The D.C. Shorts Film Festival – right in my old stomping ground. It was Bill Clinton campaign advisor Paul Begala that said of Washington: “politics is show business for ugly people.” So as a guy who went to college nine miles from D.C., and now lives in L.A., I thought I’d compare and contrast:

• D.C. has the worst traffic – and tentative drivers – I’ve ever had the pleasure of giving the finger to in their rearview mirrors. The Beltway makes the 405 Freeway look like the Autobahn.

• People in L.A. energetically pursue their dreams. Everyone in D.C. seems to be waiting for their next pay increment and coffee break.

• L.A. is humidity free. In D.C., waking up in a quagmire of your own sweat is a nightly occurrence.

• Sure they’ve got monuments, but I’ll take a pass on the FDR Memorial and check out the sidewalk in front of the Viper Room where River Phoenix OD’d.

• They re-elected a convicted crack dealer. We re-elected Schwarzenegger. That’s a tie.

• D.C. Cab starred Mr. T., Bill Maher, the bodyguard from My Bodyguard, Otis Day and Wojciehowicz from “Barney Miller.” They win.

Thanks, D.C. Shorts Festival. You’re D.C. You’re Shorts. You’re fabulous.

Get Your Stinkin’ Paws On Me, You Magnificent Ape.

I may just be a guy who earned a C+ in 10th-grade math, but it seems as if the economy is starting to improve. And it’s never too early to think about your investments. I’ve personally got my eye on Jacko's hyperbaric chamber.

But even better: put all your money into Gorilla Munch cereal. Each box is the sweetest, organic combo of corn and sugar that I’ve ever had the pleasure of polishing off in one sitting (pictured above is yesterday’s breakfast, brunch, lunch, dinner and dessert.)

In fact, I’m going to make a public plea to get the Gorilla Munch folks to hire me on as their spokesperson. I’m your guy – I’ve got a documented love for all things monkey/gorilla, you can pay me in cereal, and unlike my blog, I’ll really try not to be sexist, racist or perversive when representing your sugary goodness.

I just finished half a box while typing this. And I’ve got the cut-up roof of my mouth to prove it. Call me.

Jay, Buhbie, You’re My White Knight.

The casting director for “The Jay Leno Show” is a super cool guy named Scott Atwell who I pray is not a blog reader. Because if he is, he may come across someone heavily bitching about his show.

Jay’s new show is going to feature more sketch comedy, so Scott came into the workshop I attend and asked actors to bring in their own comedy scenes. By auditioning for him, I was able to both get on his radar, and challenge South Carolina Governor Mark Sanford for Hypocrite of the Year.

My friend Damien and I recreated a “Saturday Night Live” spoof of NBC’S “Dateline,” and reporter Keith Morrison. Damien does a spot-on Morrison, who’s a kooky old guy with a southern drawl that lets out titillated “oohs” as he interviews the victims of crimes. Meanwhile, I got to play three different characters. Here’s an abbreviated recap of our scene:

(I’m dressed in a shirt and nice jacket.)

ME: When I walked into the convenience store, I saw it was being held up.

KEITH MORRISON: Oh, no-o-o.

ME: One of the robbers shot me.

KEITH MORRISON: Shot you a dirty look?

ME: No. A bullet through my neck.


(I quickly take off the jacket, as Damien sets up the next interview with the next character):

ME: We had just gotten married...

KEITH MORRISON: A-a-ah...you liked it, so you put a ring on it.

ME: Yeah, I guess. At the reception everyone was dancing and suddenly the whole roof caved in.

KEITH MORRISON: Oh, no-o-o. Was that supposed to happen?

ME: No.


(The shirt comes off and I become a prisoner wearing a wifebeater):

ME: Yeah, my big thing was that I would take old dudes and kill 'em.

KEITH MORRISON: O-o-oh. Kill them with kindness?

ME: No. With an axe.

KEITH MORRISON: O-o-o-oh

ME: Then I cut 'em up into pieces.

KEITH MORRISON: A-a-a-ah.

ME: Then I grind 'em up in the meat grinder.

KEITH MORRISON: Yes!

ME: Then I put 'em on bread and eat them.

KEITH MORRISON: I guess you could say you had yourself a Man-wich.


We got big laughs and I felt great about it. And now, I wait.

Have a great weekend, everyone. The OC Fair is still going on, and today is senior day. I hear if you bring your own defibrillator you get five bucks off admission.

The Mattingly Family: A Blogger’s Wet Dream.

I write about them Monday, and this appears Wednesday:

Mattingly's Son Accused of Spitting in Mom's Face.
(07-22) 19:14 PDT Indianapolis (AP) --

The son of former New York Yankees star first baseman Don Mattingly was arraigned Wednesday on misdemeanor charges of shoving his mother and spitting in her face after she allegedly sent him an insulting text message.

Mattingly acknowledged pushing his mother down and spitting on her, smashing a patio table, flipping over a second table and damaging a patio door and a window.

Taylor Mattingly, who was drafted by the Yankees in the 42nd round in 2003 but no longer plays professionally, said his mother had been drinking and that when she gets drunk she calls him and makes rude comments.

Kim Mattingly told police her son was upset because she had been unable to get an auto dealership to trade in his car for another model. Kim Mattingly also had satellite TV service shut off at the nearby home where her son was staying. About 15 minutes after the service was cut, the affidavit says, Taylor Mattingly arrived at his mother's home and they began to argue.

Taylor Mattingly launched into an "abusive tirade" against his mother before picking up a chair and using it to smash a glass patio table — a piece of which cut Kim Mattingly's upper thigh. The affidavit states that Jordan Mattingly told his brother to leave the home, at which point Taylor Mattingly threw a piece of furniture inside a pool house, denting a wall, and then left.


You know, I wasn’t going to attend the film festival in Indiana, but I just may have to. They really know how to put the “k” in “klassy.”

Orange County Fair: A Blackberry Gallery.

Got my hillbilly on over the weekend at the Orange County Fair. Actually it’s in SoCal, so it wasn’t quite as white-trashy as the average fair. Take, for example, the above, in-progress sand sculpture, outside a cool exhibit called Al’s Brain, a 3-D film featuring Al Yankovic. My brother’s ad agency did work promoting both the fair and Al’s attraction. I thought it was a good Bill Nye-type career move for Al; accordion-playing jobs aren't exactly blowing up craigslist.

I promised my niece her dad would buy her one of these every year for her birthday.

They’ll make a tasty tortilla soup someday.

And I attempt to win back the ladies with newborn piglet butt.

Only at a Cali fair.

That’s more like it.

Kinda rubbing it in, eh?

Good Guys Finish In A Playoff For First.

I’ve seen my fair share of mean in my life. Like the time my frat brother purposely and violently vomited on the hair of a sorority girl at a party, earning himself a fistful of singles. Ah, cherished memories.

So when I get the opportunity to instead blog about a truly good dude, I’m on it like Snoop on a fatty.

As a kid, the Westchester Golf Classic took place in my hometown, and one year during a practice round I asked Tom Watson for his autograph. He was the nicest guy – not only taking time to sign, but trying to get to know each person who approached him. He’s been my favorite golfer ever since.

Over the weekend, at age 59, Tom was in first place going into the last hole of the British Open. He had a chance to pull off one of the greatest stories in sports history, but unfortunately finished tied, then lost in a playoff round.

In the end, Tom really had the crowd on his side, and how couldn’t he? It would be like turning on Santa Claus, or happy hour.

Here’s hoping you get to win your first big one in years, sir.

Festivus, Part XXIII.

It’s official – I’m addicted to film festivals.

I’m also addicted to dark chocolate and Internet porn. I’m thinking about becoming addicted to dark chocolate porn; it eliminates one process.

The Indianapolis International Film Festival is the 23rd fest to accept my film. I’ve never been to Indianapolis, nor Indiana for that matter, but here’s what I know:

My friend Mark is from IN. He’s good people, and perhaps my biggest fan. So I’ll try not to load this entry with my usual diss. Which won't be a problem; I can turn around and bat positive.

Couldn’t be more fitting that this is festival #23, seeing as Yankee great Don Mattingly is from Evansville, IN, and wore #23 for the Yanks. Don’s ex-wife has a hall-of-fame mug shot, after she was charged with public intoxication and disorderly conduct for refusing to leave Don’s property. You stay classy, Evansville.

David Letterman is from Indiana. My favorite story about him involves his job at a supermarket while he was in high school. Already blessed with his bizarre wit, Dave would open up a box of Corn Flakes, shove an ear of corn in it, reseal it and put it back on the shelf.

Michael Jackson is from Indiana. Whatever happened to that guy?

The most underrated sports movie of all time – Breaking Away – was shot in Bloomington. The horrendous TV show based on the movie – mercifully shot not in Indiana, but in Athens, GA.

That’s all I got. Okay, so I got a bit flip. But it’s not like I mentioned Michael Jackson’s original nose, chin, hair and complexion were from Indiana. That would just be rude.

Thanks, IIFF, for the honor.

My Houseguests.

It’s always nice to have company over. And for the next week, while my neighbors are out of town, I get to share my place with their daughter’s teeny, amphibious frogs, Slow and Moe.

I’ll try to keep them entertained, feed them well and be an all-around good host. My home is their home. And it turns out, these are some pretty appreciative frogs.

Oh, and by the way, my mom’s in town.

Damn You, Blackberry.

Got behind this car the other day featuring the license plate “BLACKNESE,” to which I was going to remark how miffed I was, because the chick behind the wheel beat me to requesting that plate.

But the built-in Blackberry cam didn’t grab a close-enough shot, and the gag went kablooie. “Smart-phone” my ass.

New Levels Of Scumbaggery: An Ongoing Series.

Somebody wanna slap this jerk?

Just when I thought Levi Johnson’s baby’s mama’s mama made me experience acute dizziness and irritability, I read this in New York magazine:

“To deal with constant press inquiries and attention, Johnston turned to Tank, a giant pile of a man who serves as Levi’s bodyguard, publicist, agent and travel buddy. ‘I wouldn’t be able to do it without him,’ Levi says of Tank. ‘It’ is the teenager’s adventurous new life. The pair have already been to Los Angeles a few times for talent meetings. Tank arranged for Levi to appear on ‘The Tyra Banks Show,’ ‘Extra,’ and CBS’ ‘The Early Show.’

Tank explains that they are shopping a book, and Levi has been offered a ‘leading role’ in a movie with a former Miss Oregon. Then Tank mentions a soon-to-be-announced television project. ‘I don’t even want to call it a reality show. It will be a docudrama or something similar.’”

So let me get this straight: instead of taking classes, attending workshops, dropping off headshots at casting directors, auditioning, writing my own roles, living in cramped spaces, etc., etc., I should simply knock up an underage chick and become the toast of the town?

Who are the TV executives canceling gems like “Arrested Development,” “Pushing Daisies” and “Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip” so that we can watch this jerkoff’s “reality” (which apparently includes dining with his publicist at Bouchon Bakery)?

If you plan on tuning in to his show, and are friends with me on Facebook, save me the effort and just de-friend us now. It’s been real.

And on the upside, anyone notice that Octomom went away? Thank you, Jesus.

For Your Viewing Pleasure.

For those of us who rely on the success of our sports teams to provide happiness in our lives, today, the day after the MLB All-Star Game, is better known as “Black Wednesday.” None of the major sports leagues are in action. Someone take away my belt and shoelaces.

But wait – there’s something on TV worth watching tonight: the debut of “Michael and Michael Have Issues” on Comedy Central. It’s a sketch show starring two of the guys from “The State” and “Stella, and it's warped and right up my alley. Click above and check out a sketch they did as the group Stella (Facebook readers click here.) And support kickass TV.

Got My Mojo Back.

I’d like to think I’m chasing the dream pretty diligently. But even us motivated types are allowed an off day in which we want to confiscate all the evidence. You heard me, Lebron.

That day for me was last Thursday, when I couldn’t get it together to work on my script. I did come clean and blog about it, but I don’t like going to bed unfulfilled, and that ain’t happening again.

So yesterday, I busted my ass and got this accomplished: up early, drove to Hollywood, auditioned for a commercial, just after doing 75 pushups in the parking lot (the call was for a shirtless guy playing online poker.) Shirt back on, long pants on, drove over the hill and auditioned for a commercial for a home soda-making machine. Completely rocked it. Then back to Hollywood, where my friend Bru was outstandingly outgoing and sat with an editor and me while we spent all afternoon putting together my acting reel. Rushed home, walked Pete, showered, then back to Hollywood for a class from 7 to 11. Lethargy, I piss on you.

Highlight of the day: Bru and I calling out a cute chick working the counter of a fancy cheese/sandwich joint in Studio City for sporting a genuine hickey on her neck. She was in her late twenties, and I asked if the boy was a junior in high school, resulting in blush #2 from her. I told her to relay to him to keep that stuff below the equator from now on.

My work is done here.

Winner: Best Short, Jersey Shore Film Festival.

The Jersey shore. Where the beer flows like Roofies, and the definition of “classy” is a garter hung from the rearview mirror of an IROC-Z.

Got a call last night from Ted the Director, who was back east attending the Jersey Shore Film Festival, and I’ll be damned, but we won an award. I’d make room for it on the mantel, only I don’t have a mantel. Instead, I’ll make room on the toilet. So hit the bricks, tissue box with crocheted cover.

I’d better wrap this up. If I go on too long with my acceptance speech at this fest I assume they’ll play me off with the stage with Bon Jovi’s “Never Say Goodbye.” And that’s not good for anyone.

I Eh NY.

I don’t miss the gray streets, the gray buildings or the gray skies. The tollbooths. The smell of piss every summer. The $50 parking garages. The windchill, or the humidity. Drivers that won’t let you merge. Shoebox apartments for 2500 bucks a month. Hostile coworkers. Rats on the subway tracks after 10 p.m. Gyms where you can’t find two matching plates. Racist country clubs. And every other guy being named Tony, Vinnie or Angelo.

But I do miss the Yankees. They’re in town for the weekend, and I went to the game last night. Sucked that they lost, but damn glad to have ‘em here. Get two out of three, guys.

My Writing Schedule.

Some days, the writing process is so rewarding, it’s like being in a Vicodin haze. Most days, however, it’s more like the maximum-security wing at Chino.

I’ve been working on my next film, a feature. Here’s a breakdown of what I accomplished yesterday:

9 a.m. – Teeth brushed, at the computer, ready to go.

9:30 a.m. – I blow away my BrickBreaker record.

10:45 a.m. – Petey goes to his basket, picks out his blue bowling pin, and starts in with me. I never back down from a fight.

11:30 a.m. – Brunch.

12 p.m. – Lunch.

12:35 p.m. – Watch the end of the Yankee game. Tex hits one out late. Should go back to work, but it would be rude not to listen to his post-game interview.

2 p.m. – “Law & Order” on TNT. Gotta see if Hang ‘Em McCoy gets his man.

3 p.m. – Turns out it’s a double shot of “Law & Order.” And that never happens.

4 p.m. – Check my script’s format. Which makes me then google the word “format.” I read a long article on formatting a hard drive on a PC. I have a Mac.

4:30 p.m. – I literally yank my hair in frustration. Then realize I need a haircut.

5:05 p.m. – I get a haircut.

6 p.m. – My workshop is cancelled. More time to write. I spend it purging my email inbox.

8 p.m. – Watch the youtube video featuring the squirrel that got drunk after eating fermented pumpkins like nine times.

1 a.m. – Write half a page, then too tired to work. I lay down for a 7-hour nap.

Look for the movie at the end of the summer. Summer, 2016.

Summertime In L.A.

Thoughts on my favorite city, Larry King style:

By the beach, where I live, not only is it cool enough in the summer that no one has A/C in their home, but I haven’t had to open my windows at night yet… Yesterday, drove past and snapped the above pic of a pretty bitchin’ brush fire that forced the Getty Center museum to evacuate… The Michael Jackson memorial went off without a hitch, and the city’s very proud. The Laker championship, not so much… Much classier team coming to town this weekend, with my Yanks playing three at the Big A. Derek Jeter, call me on the celly… Speaking of the MJ memorial, I really dug John Mayer’s instrumental version of “Human Nature.” Very tasteful… In the middle of a workshop with a very good casting director last night, all the power in Santa Monica went out. My Blackberry impressively lit up the whole room. There’s no doubt that keeping that thing in my back pocket is going to give me serious butt cancer… Good celebrity sighting: Cheryl Hines of “Curb Your Enthusiasm” outside a casting office in deep conversation with a dude. She’s hot… New couple moved in upstairs– both ER docs – and their first day here, water suddenly started dripping through my ceiling. I ran upstairs, knocked on their door, and it took the dude a good, long time to finally answer the door. The chick confided in me yesterday that they were taking a bath together. Oops.

Oscars. Thoughts By A Grouch.

Last week, the Academy Awards decided to expand the best picture nominations from five films to ten. Instead of weakly camouflaging this as a throwback to the days when ten pictures were the norm (it last happened in 1943), I would have appreciated a more honest explanation: the economy is killing everybody. Studio execs need to fill the tanks on their Bentleys, ya know.

As a guy who watches an obscene amount of movies, I’m a bit miffed. Here’s the only positive aspect I can find to this whole thing, delivered via sports analogy: it sure did benefit Major League Baseball and the NFL when wildcard teams were added in the last decade. Seasons now have meaning down to the very last games. Movie-wise, this could help often-overlooked independent films, whose teeny budgets don’t allow for award-show promotion.

And now, the cons:

• The year is already half over, and in my humble opinion, only one film has been worth seeing, and it was a raunchy, non Oscar-level comedy. Does this mean that ten incredible films will be released between now and the end of the year? Doubt it. So the field is already looking weak.

• The expansion lowers the value of a nomination, in much the same way that every Little League kid gets a trophy nowadays. It’s just an honor to be nominated? Nah.

• Quick, off the top of your head – name one film that should have been nominated from any year but was overlooked. Now name five from every year. It ain’t happening.

• Here’s the real kicker: more nominations are only going to expand the length of the show. Which increases the number of Hugh Jackman song and dance numbers. Hand me my Glock 23, will you?

By the way – my streak of never having seen a Hugh Jackman film – proudly still intact. Gimme a damn trophy for that.

New Levels Of Scumbaggery: An Ongoing Series.

This was in the actors’ breakdowns (our version of classified ads) yesterday for something called Green Wash Ball, which apparently cleans everything including a guilty conscience:

"We are looking for a pitchman like Billy Mays. Around the same age will do. Needs the lively energy, strong and positive appearance. Pretty much open to any one who knows how to pitch a product well."

Quick, someone get a snip of Billy’s beard and clone that boy before we bury him; America’s whites have just got to look their whitest.

Festivus, Part XXII.

How fittingly terrific that on Independence Day, my movie got into a film festival in Philadelphia. Though I suppose it would be just as fitting if it were accepted on Anger Consciousness Day. Philly's a surly town.

By the way, although there are 96 shopping days ‘til Anger Consciousness Day, it’s never too early to start looking for that perfect gift. Like a flaming bag of pooh. Or the more traditional pillowcase with a bar of soap in it.

I just hope people don’t forget the true meaning of the holiday; it’s gotten so commercial.

Thanks, Philadelphia Independent Film Festival. You’re my 22nd. And you rock.

Suck It, Britain.

As I drove past this temporary fireworks stand on Rosecrans, I wondered if our founding fathers dreamed of a nation in which a guy no longer had to go into Chinatown to illegally purchase the very item that was going to blow off one of his hands.

And I couldn’t help but think yes, yes they did.

Happy 4th.

Brad The Butler.

Watch more Veoh videos on AOL Video

Today, as part of the long American weekend celebration, click and see how our stars are treated over in Japan.

John McClane Shed His Grace On Thee.

I hear that many of you who work for a living are getting tomorrow off to celebrate Independence Day. If you must drink, please drink domestically.

As a kid back east, I was a freak for the Revolutionary War. But since moving to the Greatest City on Earth, I’ve found that Cali has its own own patriotic history.

Above, in Century City in L.A., is 20th Century Fox’s headquarters. Better known as Nakatomi Plaza in the movie Die Hard. And really, what’s more American than killing German terrorists? I’ll tell you what: killing them again when they come back to life five minutes later.

God Bless Hollywood.

The Greatest Audition I’ll Ever Have.

Some guys have a Super Bowl T.D. Or the time they solved a Rubik’s Cube. I had an audition for a cracker.

The cracker brand was Gran Pavesi. Which is quite possibly Italian for “sexual assault.” I’ll have to check.

The call was for a guy in shorts and flip flops, and talk about typecasting – I’m like the Marlboro man of European snacks.

It all took place last week. I arrived at the casting office, read the storyboard and my eyes widened a little bit.

Here’s what they needed me to do: sit in a beach chair next to a sunbathing woman in a bikini, which in this case was a tall, 10 of an Australian blonde, nibble on crackers (tasty, lemon ones) and spot an imaginary fly circling around me until it lands on Aussie Chick’s butt. Then take a rolled-up magazine and swat that butt. Then apologize by splitting a cracker with her.

The director wanted four takes. Aussie Chick urged me to hit her as hard as I liked. And I am nothing if not professional. It was sensory overload.

I suppose it’s all downhill from here. Worth it. Grande grazie, Gran Pavesi.