That’s Good Poultry.

My nephew, Spanky, was a chicken last Halloween. Tonight, he’ll be a rooster. I suppose the natural progression for next year: turducken.

I Rate The Autographs At Mulberry Street Pizza In Beverly Hills.

Rodney King signs along with the gang from “Sober House.”
FINAL ANALYSIS: What do I gotta do to get to sign the wall? Exceed the speed limit, get beaten up and drink too much, apparently.

Halle Berry loves “you” pizza so much, she misspells her own name.
FINAL ANALYSIS: May want to finish painting over this one.

Don Rickles points to Sharon Stone’s autograph with the note “Sharon call!”
FINAL ANALYSIS: Interesting long-term attempt to get into Sharon’s pants.

Leonardo DiCaprio quotes the bloodied and beaten Jake LaMotta, with “You never knocked me down, Ray.” A reference to Raging Bull star/Mulberry co-owner Cathy Moriarty.
FINAL ANALYSIS: That kid from “Growing Pains” is cool.

Tom Cruise and Richard Lewis signed next to each other.
FINAL ANALYSIS: Ask for the no-sanity section.

David Caruso gets his quotes on.
FINAL ANALYSIS: I’m guessing he put on his shades in between writing the words “great” and “pizza.”

Buddy Hackett gives his native Borough Park, Brooklyn a shout-out.
FINAL ANALYSIS: If I owned a restaurant, I’d only allow fat celebrities to sign my walls.

Philadelphia Giveth.

Normally, the Yankees in the World Series would be cause for celebration. And yet, for some reason I’m not wearing a party hat and sitting bare-ass on a copy machine.

That’s because the Philadelphia Phillies did a real number on the Yanks last night. But then Philly redeemed itself just a tiny bit when I found out that Julie Ann Emery, one of the co-stars of my film, The Beneficiary, won Best Actress at the FirstGlance Film Fest in Philadelphia. Outstanding.

I suppose it should come as no surprise; Julie Ann is one of the most talented actresses I’ve ever worked with, and she was always pleasant and prepared. And now, when it comes to an acting nomination, she sticks the landing, as usual. Good work, J.

My Favorite Divorce.

As a defender of all things Los Angeles, I grow weary of the notion that marriages here don’t last. A quick Google search will reveal that L.A. is far from the divorce capital of the United States. That claim belongs to Tacoma. But I’m focusing today on my favorite city – L.A. – and a divorce involving my favorite sport – baseball. I’d assume the top sport in Tacoma is foxy boxing.

On second thought, check that – I defend all things L.A. except for their sports teams. My allegiance will always remain with New York. My friend Marc recently asked who I’d root for if the Yankees met the Dodgers in the World Series. I believe my reply was, “The Dodgers can suck my ass.”

Which transitions nicely to the divorce of Dodger owners Frank and Jamie McCourt. Oh, who can’t forget the inseparable sweethearts who after being outbid trying to buy their hometown Red Sox, purchased the Dodgers instead and let their sacchariny love begin to ruin this storied franchise? And recently, as their relationship turned ugly, it got damn entertaining.

Jamie, a really sexy older babe, is currently being pushed out of her job as Dodger CEO by Frank, who cites one of the grounds for her dismissal as “inappropriate behavior with a direct subordinate.” That is hot.

I believe Jamie and Frank’s disintegration ranks higher than ESPN baseball analyst Steve Phillips’ recent split. By the way, how fitting is it that Phillips, the former Mets general manager, chose to bang a chick that looks just like Benny Agbayani?

So, you gay dudes still really want the right to get married? Best of luck when you get it.

Kickass Rat Trap Sighting Of The Week.

Just to the right of the entrance of Ralph’s Supermarket.
Hawthorne Blvd., Redondo Beach.

Festivus, Part XXXIV.

How tremendously sweet is it that the place where my parents spent their childhoods ­– Coney Island – has a festival that has accepted their son’s film? Maybe someday one of my kids will be accepted into a fest located at a peep-show booth in Times Square.

The Coney Island Film Festival is The Beneficiary’s 34^th fest, and it’s really nice to see the run continue. I wish I were in Coney Island with the film, stopping by Nathan’s for a hot dog, and an order of fries with the tiny red, plastic fork. Then riding the Cyclone and vomiting it all back up. Yeah, good times.

Thank you, Coney Island Film Festival. The best amusement-park based film festival in all of Brooklyn.

Kickass Sighting Of A Celebrity Who’s Been In A Bunch Of Stuff But You Never Remember His Name.

Vondie Curtis-Hall.
Fairfax Ave., Hollywood.

My Business.

As a guy who spends 98% of his day in his underwear (my neighbors will regretfully vouch), it felt good to put on a suit for an occasion that didn't involve a wedding, funeral or federal indictment.

And as I stood in my suit for an hour and a half, waiting for a commercial audition Wednesday night, the casting directors read names of actors off a sign-in sheet, only to find some had grown fed up with the wait and left. The ones who stayed read magazines and chatted, rather than spending their time making choices about what the advertisers were looking for in this audition, like I did. (With a two-second break to snap a pic.)

So it’s now official: my friend/actor Mark Mainardi and I have decided to create a new business in which we help the quitters and posers get the F out of this town.

We’ll come to you and pack you up. We’ll wrap glasses in newspaper – or better yet, your headshots – and drive you to the airport, avoiding all stoplights and speed limits. We’ll walk you to the terminal, throw your ass on the plane, and get you the hell out of our way.

You see, but I don’t drive across town for an audition so that I can sign in and leave, or worse yet, get involved in some sort of coffee klatch while I stay. Stop clogging up auditions, jerkoffs, or for that matter the 405 Freeway, and allow Mark and I to put you out of your misery.

The idea just can't fail, and you know why? Because the genius switch has no “off” position. Call today.

Holy Halloween.

I had such big plans to attend this kickass party in Northridge, but the “no scary costumes” rule is totally putting the kibosh on my costume options: Obama. Guy sleeping in on a Sunday. Third guy on the evolutionary chart. Former altar boy with a really good memory. Gay groom. Guy chowing a Big Mac on a Friday. Black Jesus. Taxes. Black Santa. Bagel with a schmear. An open mind.

Don’t Forget Your Catcher’s Mask.

My favorite casting search of the week:

CHRIS BROWN “So Cold”

Music Video

[MODEL] 19-25 years old, beautiful models, unattainable types. Looking for a Beyonce type, really top notch, higher base models, please submit ASAP.

Playin' Hooky.

For me, there’s only one legitimate excuse for missing an acting class: attending a funeral. But yesterday, my Yankees were in town for a playoff matinee, and that is must-see baseball. As the game crept into extra innings, my chances of getting to class were officially shot. However, the Yankees lost, which is just as traumatic as a funeral, so my conscience is clean.

On a side note – big enough flag or what? I’m still on the fence about whether the folks in Anaheim are patriotic enough. Think about one of them tiny flag lapel pins you Republicans love so much. Less is more. Discuss.

Festivus, Part XXXIII.

Ah, Louisville. Where the married men’s basketball coach sleeps with a cougar with big cans at a local restaurant, knocks her up, forks over three grand for the abortion, has her go psycho on him, pays the team equipment manager to marry her and get her off his back, is extorted by her, gets accused by the equipment manager of raping her twice, etc., etc. etc.

But it’s all going to be okay, Coach Rick Pitino is a devout Catholic.

Great town. And man do they have one fine film festival. Louisville’s International Festival of Film is not only the 33^rd fest to accept my film – it’s extortion free. And these days, that’s refreshing.

Hey Louisville IFF – you know the drill: big thanks. Stay classy.

You Bet You Do, Hon.

Saw this on craiglist yesterday. Cheating is so affordably convenient these days:

need a writter
Iam a student whos attending CSUN and need help writting my papers.

Paying $10 hr.
Qulification: good writting skills, having a college degree is a plus.
for details email me ASAP. these papers are due pretty soon
monica

My Favorite Commercial.

The next time I get pulled over, and the officer asks me why I’m driving without insurance, I’ll tell him that those Geico commercials with the googly-eyed money stack are so damn annoying that I felt compelled to drop my policy. I imagine he’ll be so understanding that he’ll let me go, but only after he insists I fire off a few rounds with his service revolver.

On the other hand, there’s nothing more badass than the Under Armour commercial featuring Devin Hester. Devin’s day starts off with waking up next to a fabulous babe, and only gets better. Love it.

Click above to check it out. Facebook readers click here.

Listen Here.

No doubt, the toughest thing about this business is the enormous number of actors in L.A. It’s believed there are 200,000 of us, but I’d bet anything it’s more like two million. Which makes for a godforsaken amount of guys I’m up against. Granted, most of them have more highlights in their hair than they do on their résumés, but I gotta stay on my toes.

So waiting outside a commercial audition last week, with a short bit of copy to memorize but very vague direction, I paced, trying to make some choices about what they were looking for. And then I heard a muffled voice coming from a side door to the room, lifted up a piece of foam core covering some ventilated slats, and listened in. That’s me, above, incriminating myself with my Blackberry.

Hey – I didn’t shower and put on long pants so that I could blindly audition for this and not get it. Though it turns out I actually did shower, put on long pants, listen in and didn't get it. But still.

Happy Birthday, Big Guy.

My brother, who was very close with our friend Chas, passed along this pic yesterday, on what would have been Chas’ birthday.

It was taken years back outside of a Syracuse/USC football game. Chas, wanting to get us on TV, created the t-shirts.

I’m in the front on the left. Forget about my hockey hair, the rolled-up sleeves, the length of my shorts. (The 90s. Sheesh. What are you going to do?) This brings back a nice memory of a very good guy.

Life goes fast. Good to have a moment or two like this.

With A Side Of Bromo.

Sports hold a very special place for me, both because I rely on the success my teams for a little happiness in my life, and because whenever I blog about them my mother worries a little less that all my readers think I’m gay.

And there’s nothing more hetero than a guy who usually goes to bed at 3 a.m., getting up at 6:30 a.m. so so he can take an early acting class. And thereby clear the evening to watch Monday Night Football, which I did, yesterday.

It’s tradition for my friends and I, whenever the Jets are playing on Monday night, to watch the game at a shack of a joint literally called The Shack, in Playa del Rey. Where the highlight of the night, far beyond the game, is my big brother’s appetite.

He’ll put away two-to-three Shack Burgers – featuring a quarter pound of beef topped by a split Louisiana hot link. And he'll still have room for a basket of onion rings and dessert.

Christmas is around the corner. I wonder if the SkyMall catalog features stomach pumps.

Festivus, Award Winner.

I’ve always said that the definition of a good weekend is one in which you don’t get scarfed down by a shark. And seeing as I’m able to type this, it’s safe to assume that whitey didn’t chew off my hands. Well, at least not my "me time" hand, thank Jesus.

But just when I thought it wasn’t safe to go back into the water, my film won the Seahorse Award at the Moondance International Film Festival. Anybody want to wade into the Pacific for me and pick up this prize? I think I need an intern.

In the meantime, this makes it 32 festival acceptances for The Beneficiary. And one nautically-based film award. Ahoy.

My New Favorite Gym Member.

Tatted-up guy with lemon slices in his bottled water.

Can I get you a moist towelette there, ace?

What I Won’t Be Doing This Weekend.

Tomorrow, there’s a get-together at my big brother’s house here in Cali. I’m not sure what he’ll be serving, so I’m bringing both a ’65 Moet and Pizza-Blasted Pringles.

Consider my ass covered.

But don’t consider my ass eaten by a shark, because that ain’t happening. Last Saturday, a surfer took the above shot of a Great White off Sunset Beach in Santa Monica. So for the time being, the only place I’m getting wet is in the world’s tiniest stand-up shower. (Those of you who’ve seen it can vouch, and then contemplate how I bathe a Pit Bull in there with me every Sunday night.)

On a side note, is there any movie in the history of film that made more of an impact on our lives than Jaws? I think about it every time I set foot into the ocean. Or an above-ground pool, for that matter.

So no death-by-shark for me. I’ve already chosen the way I want to eventually go out: assassination.

Safe weekend.

My Audition.

Money is a good thing. Someday I plan on making enough of it to keep a fat lawyer on retainer, just in case I kill a prostitute.

But doing quality work is also a good thing. And when I read a scene featuring a missionary who helps stop human trafficking by rescuing kidnapped women, I looked forward to auditioning. Which I did, last Friday.

The director and producer liked my performance, and then asked me to read for the role of a bad guy in the film who is physically and sexually abusive.

When I finished, they asked me which role I preferred, and I told them that I’m not a fan of being mean to women. (In spite of my proclivity for dead prostitute references.)

The producer called me yesterday. I got the role. Of the bad guy.

I shoot one day later this month, and I’m going to have to start familiarizing myself with sexual assault. Maybe I’ll friend Roman Polanski on Facebook.

The Best New Show On TV.

My hero Adam Carolla likes to say, “There’s no such thing as a cool dad.” I’m with him. You can’t throw a punch without hitting a dude who lost his mojo the second he impregnated his wife. Speaking of which, I will pop the next father who tells me Shrek is a really funny movie that’s written for adults. It’s not. Stop it.

And no one is more self-deluded than Phil Dunphy of “Modern Family,” played by Ty Burell. In the pilot episode a couple weeks back, Phil claimed, “I’m the cool dad – that’s my thang. I’m hip, I surf the web, I text. LOL: laugh out loud. OMG: oh my God. WTF: why the face?”

“Modern Family” is shot in the semi-documentary style of “The Office,” and it’s just as funny. It’s on tonight at 9, so tune in, or TiVo it while you watch the Yanks beat the pants off the Twins.

Hey, Derek Jeter ain’t a dad. Expect big things this month.

Trivia Time.

For the first time since I’ve lived in L.A., I witnessed a guy buying cheap-ass flowers from a Mexican on a freeway off-ramp.

What did this guy do to his wife that he made him need to apologize prontissimo?

A) Picked the wrong day of the month to squeeze the toothpaste from the middle

B) Slept with his show’s staff members until some jerkoff tried to extort two mil from him

C) Bought her cheap-ass flowers from a Mexican on a freeway off-ramp

Festivus, Part XXXI.

What I know about wine you could pretty much fit into a tastevin: I know that a tastevin is the thing a sommelier wears around his neck, and is the laziest name for an object ever. I know that “wine connoisseur" is really a euphemism for “raging alcoholic.” And I know that I took a sip of one of the most expensive wines in the world once and it just tasted like ass.

Oh no, he didn’t. Oh yes, he did.

But I must admit that wine is a terrific beverage that goes really well with dramatic thrillers written and starring actors like myself. Because the Wine Country Film Festival is the 31^st fest to accept my film. L’chaim.

Good stuff. Thank you, wine country. The best country in all the hemisphere.

Pardon Me, Can I Borrow $2.6 Million?

I often wear a spacesuit. Because, you know, you dress the job you want, not the job you have.

And lately I want to score that high-paying gig more than ever, as I walk Petey past this, my dream house every day, being built a block from the beach.

She will be mine. Oh yes, she will be mine.

My Fantasy.

This week, CBS and ABC decided to boycott the “Jay Leno Show,” discouraging their stars from appearing on the new primetime talk show that has helped NBC eliminate hundreds of jobs for writers and cast and crew members who would otherwise be employed in the production of five one-hour series.

It’s official: I want to have a threesome with CBS and ABC.

They can both come over my apartment and I’ll start by making them dinner. I fry up a pizzawich, which goes very well with a twelve-pack of Zima. Then we can all snuggle on the couch and watch lots of phenomenal programming, like the “Mentalist,” or “Private Practice.” Perhaps “CSI: Miami.” Or “Castle.” They’re all great foreplay.

Then, at 11 p.m., we can retreat to my bedroom, and my cozy full-size bed for the real festivities. Then at 11:05 we can return to my couch and hold each other while we watch great local news on KCBS or KABC, and talk about how local NBC 11 o’clock news ratings across the country are down 17% since Leno was moved to prime time.

Then I’ll send them on their way after they promise to text me that they've gotten home safe. And I’ll reply to those texts, right after I shower and change the sheets.

I assure you this won’t just be a one-night stand. I’ll ask them both to move in, and it’ll be nice having company all the time. The toilet seat will never need warming.

*SIDE NOTE: I realized as I posted this that my mom reads my blog every day. Then I realized my mom also watches Leno. I’m so full of conflicting thoughts. I guess I’ll let my therapist sort them out.

Top Five Actors That Everyone Seems To Love.

I know plenty of actors whose measure of success is simply getting regular work. It ain’t me, babe. I want to be proud of my projects, and make films that make a difference. It’s an effort certain to give me the stomach lining of a 60-year-old air-traffic controller.

But I’ll go one further. I want to be a likeable actor. You know the type. You can’t mention to a friend that David Strathairn was in a film without your friend immediately mentioning how much he loves David Strathairn. Text somebody right now and try it. I’ll wait.

Off the top of my head, here are five actors that fit this category:

David Strathairn
Tom Skerritt
Chris Cooper
Don Cheadle
Sam Rockwell

They may be likeable for personal reasons. When his son was born with cerebral palsy in 1987, Chris Cooper searched the country for the best school for him, and moved his family to Massachusetts, where they still live today. Along with George Clooney, Don Cheadle was presented with the Summit Peace Award by Nobel Peace Prize Laureates for his work in Darfur. Plus he was super nice to my friend Jeff during a softball game in Santa Monica. Take your pick which is cooler.

You may dig them for professional reasons. David Strathairn owns the “nice guy” role, most recently as the kindly old Dean in We Are Marshall. Tom Skerritt as the concerned Top Gun officer (featuring one of my favorite movie clichés – the “your dad was the best I ever saw” bit.) And Roger Ebert called Sam Rockwell “the latter-day version of Christopher Walken.” That’s kickass.

So I’ve got my work cut out for me. Hey they don’t give Summit Peace Awards for snarky blog entries, do they? I’ll clear a shelf.