How Was I Not Hired For This Infomercial?

After boner pills, this seems like a logical next step.

Tastes Like Jerkoff.

I have thoughts of suicide, but it's mostly just hoping other people kill themselves.

My agent called me about an audition for a commercial last week, but all she could tell me was the audition address and a code-name for the commercial: “turkey.”

When I arrived, sure enough, it was called “turkey,” and I had to fill out three non-disclosure agreements. The casting director told me why: recently, an actor booked a big commercial for a company’s secret, new product, and before it was shot, he tweeted everything about his booking and the commercial’s plot. The client saw this, and not only fired him, but cancelled the entire shoot.

Must have been real kick in the shins there, huh Ace?

As a daily blogger, I understand the giddiness to share with the world a new gig, but I also realize the importance of keeping one's F’n mouth shut for a couple weeks until it’s okay to boast. Now, thanks to this shithead, my job as an actor is all the more difficult, what with code-names and the inability to research a company before I audition, or memorize my lines in advance.

Thanks a bunch, sir. You are like a giant cock-blocking robot developed in a secret government lab.

This Was Not In The Brochure.

Really, LA? Really?

Crunching The Thanksgiving Numbers.

Native Americans may have invented pot-luck, but us whiteys perfected it.

A few stats from Thanksgiving at my brother’s house:

ATTENDEES: 27
ADDITIONAL ATTENDEES FOR DESSERT: 6
POUNDS OF TURKEY: 40
PIES: 8
STRAWBERRIES EATEN BY MY THREE-YEAR-OLD NEPHEW: STOPPED COUNTING AFTER 30

Gotta run. Leftovers. Can’t blog… eating…

I Give Thanks.

Thanksgiving for me is so much more than the day we honor Elin taking a five-iron to Tiger's Ambien-overdosed noggin.

It’s a chance for me to give thanks to all the people, places and things that made my blog possible this past year. Here goes:

• My turtleneck
• Blue Man makeup on my eyeball
• Dudes around LA dressed like lady liberty
• Cobblermania
• Mexican Santa
• Nine feet of sandwich
• Nude Nuns with Big Guns
• Top-hat wearing personal injury attorney
• Ice cream dosed with dog antibiotics
• Guy out strolling in underwear with a security device still attached
• Kid who impaled himself on the waiting-room bench
• Boner pills
• Ginormous elephant poop
• Three guys I’d like to choke
• Louisiana Fried Chicken
• Cute, dancing stoner chick
• Guy sporting a toupee with the top down
• Dirty Old Mark Sanchez
• Jewish Rudy (AKA Jewdy)
• Woman who crashed through that fence

Talk About A Short Film…

In theaters now. For real.

Make It Ricky.

David Letterman said it first, and my friend Jeff and I constantly repeat it: “The thing about the genius switch is – there is no off position.”

Which is why my idea for a coffee table book featuring wedding photos of now-divorced couples is going to be a #1 best-seller. It's a guaranteed laugh on every page.

It’s also why I fully believe that when ABC names the host of the upcoming Oscars, if they don’t bring back Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin (who I both love and think did a hilarious job) the guy they need to choose is Ricky Gervais.

Did you catch Ricky at the recent Emmys? He’s made for these events – poised, yet willing to bash fellow celebrities, and the name of the winner.

Yep, there you have it: another gem from a brilliant mind. I wish I could give myself a Gatorade bath.

Festive.

Good to see the 99¢ Store on La Brea is decorating the joint in their own unique way.

What The Crap?

As aspiring actors, we sacrifice to pursue our dreams. We live with too many roommates, drive rundown jalopies, forego flying home for the holidays so we can afford to eat three times a day. We are the redheaded, hillbilly stepchildren of the entertainment business.

That said, why would the following casting call be sent out to actors in this town:

CASTING SINGLE MILLIONAIRES!

Millionaires can be male or female, gay or straight. They must be open to finding a serious relationship, and live in the Los Angeles area. We are currently accepting applications and scheduling interviews. Please email your contact info, a photo of yourself, along with a brief description about yourself and your ideal mate.

What Was I Saying?

Auditions aren’t easy. You’ve gotta deliver lines, hit your mark, tackle any physicality, risk being paired opposite a lousy actor and have the pressure to get it right the first time, without direction and the luxury of multiple takes. It’s the mental equivalent of four-year-olds playing soccer.

And if that isn’t enough to test the bounds of your adult ADHD, try concentrating in the waiting room next to the audition for this year’s godaddy.com Super Bowl commercial, featuring bikini chicks.

Sometimes, the best way to clear your head is with a bullet.

Obscure Reason #1 Why I Love LA So Much.

If you had told me when I was growing up in New York that someday I'd both fill my tank and get my car washed on the Disney Studio lot, I'd have slapped your lying face.

Zing.

I mentioned last week that Jimmy Kimmel’s green room was just heaven on earth. Plasmas broadcasting hi-def football. Fully-stocked, open bar. Warm buffet constantly replenished. And if that weren’t enough to put us all in the perfect, supportive mood for the show, the warm, pumpkin-apple cobblers were quite possibly dosed with Prozac.

But that apparently wasn’t enough to satisfy some of the shnorrers in the room. You see, once Jimmy’s show started, the flatscreens tuned away from football and began broadcasting Jimmy’s live feed.

At that point, one of the ungrateful freeloaders in the green room yelled out, “Who do we have to talk to to get the game back on?”

Without missing a beat, a cute, young PA turned around and said, “Ask the guy who’s giving you free booze.”

I’m in love.

Once Again, Random Shots I’m Deleting: A Blackberry® Purge.

It’s been awfully reliable and user-friendly, but soon my Blackberry will be serving its ultimate purpose: landfill.

Until then, I’ve been posting photos that never made it onto my blog, and offering some thoughts. Today’s selection: Willie Gault’s hardware.

Did you know that NFL players who play for championship teams each receive their own mini Lombardi Trophy? They do, according to wide receiver Willie Gault of the ’85 Chicago Bears, who is married to my friend Suzan.

Actually, the trophy also goes to a certain actor who’s going to wait for Willie to turn his back, snatch it and make a run for it.

Willie, by the way, was also an Olympic sprinter, so I’m pretty much screwed. I’ve said too much.

Barely Managing.

Lately, I’ve been receiving lots of messages from people after they've seen my Wii commercial air. I’m truly blessed that so many of my friends are of the shut-in variety, and able to catch Oprah so regularly.

So I figured I’d give them one more spot to look out for. Click above, and enjoy the stiff lower lip of approval I emote in this commercial for FreeCareerAdvancement.com.

All Sorts Of Wrong.

Halo night with the Degenerate Actor Friends is not really for the squeamish. Not because of the shotgun blasts to the face, frag grenades, or the hand-to-hand bludgeoning, but because of the all-night trash-talk homophobia, racism, misogynism, anti-semitism, and a few other ism’s that would turn you white.

My ears may never walk again.

Inside The Elaborately-Decorated Green Room.

To do full justice to describing Jimmy Kimmel’s green room would require an exertion of gushiness you could not bear to read, nor I to write.

So here’s an abbreviated version: open bar. Frequently-replenished food. Plasma TVs featuring the Ravens/Falcons game. I kept checking over my shoulder to see if Ashton Kutcher was going to appear and tell me I’d gotten punk'd.

My sister-in-law's friend Courtney, who is Jimmy’s cue-card holder, got my big brother, our friend Chris and me in there last night. It was actually my second time hanging out, and it again was the perfect carrot to dangle in front of an actor someday looking to eventually make the rounds of places like this, the kitchen sink of man caves.

Am I insinuating that I had a good time? Yeah, kind of.

You Can Only Hope To Contain Him.

Good news: the old guy in the Sanchez jersey has been apprehended, after trying to pull off a similar heist in Montana.

Bad news: the drunk shithead who tried to break into my apartment – still at large.

The Free Lunch.

I have only one rule when it comes to food: nothing against turkey, but if there’s turkey in it, it’s not chili.

I’ll eat most anything else, and if you feed me at all, I’ll be extremely grateful. Which is why it was outstanding that on a callback last week, the producers provided lunch.

Once we actors book a job, we couldn’t be treated any better. When we audition, however, it’s a whole other story.

No one offers up their services for free like we do while trying to get work. (Though my mom, a real estate agent, is quick to point out that she has it worse, and justifiably so, shuttling around non-buyers on her dime on a daily basis.) So thank you, producers, for hooking us up with tasty sandwiches. Fill my belly and I’ll give you the best I’ve got.

Speaking of which, if I eat five mini Snickers instead of one regular sized one, will I lose weight? Please say yes because I just did it.

Vegas: A Blackberry® Photo Gallery.

Just across the street from our nice hotel: the world’s filthiest CVS. As I approached the entrance, a shoplifter blew past me out the front door and fled into the night. Meanwhile, inside, the sweat-pants-with-tuxedo-shoes look was all the rage among the paying customers.

The weekend wasn’t all drunken debauchery, as I put my college education to good use and bet on my Terps, who covered against Miami.

For me, celebrity sightings are always fun, but seeing Yankee pitcher Joba Chamberlain got me so excited I poohed a little.

America – F yeah!

Forgive the inadvertent racism, but here is the weekend, summed up by one of the guys’ texts: “Laying in bed while three Spanish women clean up my puke.”

Birthday Boy.

Pardon me while I postpone my Vegas recap until tomorrow, but we have a momentous occasion around here: Petey’s birthday.

He really deserves a celebration, because while I was losing my voice in Vegas, he was in lockup all weekend.

Pete’s turning the big 11, and though he hasn’t lost a step, I’m fully aware he’s a big dog, and there aren’t going to be many more birthdays for him. So it's time to make the most of it with our traditional visit to PetSmart to allow the old man to pick out his birthday present.

This year's finalists: frog with a squeaker as loud as a Mack truck's horn vs. a radial tire.

Winner: the frog. Sorry, neighbors.

The First 12 Hours.

Seeing Cher, Barry Manilow and Celine Dion billboards the second I landed made me question my masculinity so much that the second I hit the hotel, I put two bills on my Terps to upset Miami today… When did air travel get so ghetto? I've been more comfortable on a bus…Probably didn’t help that my friend Rob, who flew out with me, got us into the US Airways club at the airport. It was so hoity-toity, I entered a Democrat and left a Republican… Lot of craps played last night, but today it’s time for some real gambling: the seafood buffet… Doesn't matter if you're at the beginning of a long day or the end of a long night – seeing 5:45 a.m. on the clock is never good news.

By The Time You Read This, I’ll Already Be Ruphied.

It’s my friend Chris’ birthday, and the boys and I are all going to Vegas for the weekend to celebrate. Meeting us there will be a few of Chris’ high-rolling, felonious friends from Florida. I'm going to die on this trip.

I try to check in here during bouts of consciousness.

It’s Over, Johnny.

Last May, I got herbs and vegetables to plant in the back yard. I planted corn as well, so I could better understand the music of John Mellencamp.

Meanwhile, I’m not exactly sure what possessed my neighbors across the street to stick their favorite, local candidate’s placard in my front yard, but they’ve apparently got just humungous balls.

I don’t know a thing about John Stammreich – except that his last name sounds like a concentration camp where several of my relatives would have been gassed – but he was now going to have to lose, because my idiot neighbors put me in an awkward position.

I didn’t want to get into a feud with them, but I think any political swag is just a bull’s-eye on my house for any crazy person, and it had to go. What to do?

I figured I’d sleep on it. And then the next morning I tore the thing to shreds.

Here’s the best part: John Stammreich lost Tuesday night – to a dead woman. Jenny Oropeza, his opponent, died from an abdominal blood clot last week, and she still kicked his ass.

Well-run campaign, dude.

People Who Shoot In Glass Lobbies.

I had a meeting yesterday at LA Center Studios. (It went well. Thanks for asking.)

Actually, it went mostly well until I came face-to-face with my sworn enemy: the lobby window.

You see, several scenes from the movie I wrote and starred in were shot at LA Center, and while rolling one morning, one of our lights was too close to one of the big windows. The intense heat caused it to essentially explode.

When I found out how much it would cost us to replace it, I wanted to take a piece of the broken glass and slit my wrist with it. And then I wanted to do it again yesterday when I saw the shiny, new replacement. (See above, middle.)

Compound that with the fact that the window is now getting more screen time than me these days, on “Mad Men,” which shoots at the studio, and I considered going Charlie Sheen hotel-room style on it.

Consider yourself warned, bitch.

Dust It, And Run It Down To The Boys In The Lab.

At the end of a long July 4th weekend a couple of summers ago, my friend Jeff and I were hanging in a bar by the beach, when Jeff decided to get a beer. I don’t drink, and as I stood waiting for him in the middle of the place, Kenny Rogers’ “The Gambler” began blaring, and all the jerkoffs around me started singing and gesturing boisterously to the lyrics. Jeff returned, without a beer, and said, “Let’s get out of here.” When I asked him why, he said, “Because you look like you’re about to kill someone.”

I don’t suffer drunks well. And Jeff is a very good friend.

Cut to late Friday night. As I was asleep in bed, Petey came into my room and woke me. I sat up, saw someone was trying to enter the front door of my apartment, and jumped out of bed. The guy was yanking on the doorknob and pounding on the door trying to get in, and I yelled at him to back off. He responded with option B: trying to pull off a screen and enter through one of my windows. I called the police.

I caught a glimpse of the guy stumbling off. He was a blackout-drunk dressed in a forest-ranger costume, and spilling food he had picked up from the Mexican joint around the corner.

The cops showed up quickly, but missed him. They were really cool and searched the entire neighborhood, but couldn’t find him.

I’ve blogged about Halloween in the past (Jeff, by the way, called me a grumpy, old man for writing that; Jeff is a very bad friend) and here it was, a fitting incident on the Official Weekend of Flaming Assholes Everywhere.

On the other hand, at least the son of a bitch was kind enough to leave me a Halloween treat:

Taking My Niece And Nephew Trick-Or-Treating: A Blackberry® Photo Gallery.

These folks must have shelled out serious bucks to have Larry King come sit on their front porch.

Borrow my nephew’s diaper, please? This guy was walking around the neighborhood revving a real chainsaw.

Decorating this house must have taken longer than a Ken Burns documentary about decorating this house.

Moving up in the world: that’s Petey and Los Angeles Laker Luke Walton’s bulldog exchanging pleasantries.

Key to a happy Halloween: wait for the kids to fall asleep and then go through their candy.