Why?

So THIS Is How You Get Through This Film.

Next Generation.

Warren Rockmacher’s father and my father went to podiatry school together. And that, my friends, is the Jewiest sentence to ever appear on this blog.

Our parents had instant chemistry, and the Rockmachers eventually had four kids, and my mom and dad had three. While most of my parents’ friends were completely insufferable (ya know, New Yorkers), my brothers and I loved going over to the Rockmachers’ house. We spent Sundays and holidays with them. They were the cool family. Hilarious. The ones with the giant RV, the pool, the go-cart. They were the only grownups we called by their first names – Phyllis and Larrie. My best memories of childhood are of our dads taking all seven kids in the RV (stocked with double-stuffed Oreos) to Six Flags in New Jersey every fall.

Warren and I hadn’t seen each other since my dad died, but we picked right up where we left off. He’s such a nice guy, but of course he is – he’s his parents’ kid. He told me the only time he’s ever seen his dad get emotional was when Larrie spoke at my father’s funeral. Death finally broke the bond they’d forged. I bet my dad would have liked that their sons have forged one, too.

The Second Great Movie Of 2015.

My people were simple folk. Our family crest has a can of Dinty Moore beef stew on it.

But the Kingman – those are some swashbuckling dudes. And their movie is a homage to great spy films, blatantly acknowledging James Bond.

Actually, it’s a throwback to Bond films the way they used to be, before Jason Bourne forced James Bond to become a virtual super hero. Kingsman: The Secret Service is slick, retro cool, and loaded with high-tech gadgetry.

Everyone in this film is cool. Colin Firth, as an ass-kicking father-figure in a double-breasted suit, wielding an umbrella. (Wait ‘til you see his fight scene choreographed by Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Free Bird.”) Michael Caine, as the grandfather-figure who could probably still beat your ass if need be. And the new kid, Taron Egerton, previously a British TV star, really owns the screen.

January and February are normally a dumping ground for films that have zero award-show potential. So it would behoove a smart studio (in this case, Fox), to release one that is fun and bad ass and can really clean up this time of year.. You should go see this movie. It’s great.

Watch My New Comedy Short.

A few years ago, I made a pact with myself: every night I couldn’t get into bed until I came up with a premise for a film. You could say I respected that pact – I wound up with 465 premises.

The list of ideas is so daunting, nuns cross themselves when they see it. And I took one of them and wrote it as a comedy short, enlisted my friends Bru and Aina, and we made it. Take a look.

I also posted it on Funny or Die. If you like it, click here and vote “funny.” Either way, I can finally get some rest.

Sour Milk, Duck Blogging Season, Frumpy Oprah. Or As I Like To Call It: Saturday.

The checkout line at Vons moved so slowly, I wondered if my milk would make it out before it expired.

These lost ducks were outside a Fresh & Easy market. Turns out ducks will quack when you give them pretzels.

Oprah’s Selma wardrobe. I assumed she’d step out from behind it and announce that everyone at ArcLight was getting this dress.

My Lock.

Gambling on the Academy Awards? I’m like the catdog of dirtbags and pussies.

The Wynn sports book has updated its odds for best picture, and Boyhood has dropped behind Birdman at 6/5, which means I have to put $100 on Boyhood just to win $120. Birdman is good, but Boyhood is the best. I’m betting on it. Join me; thank me Monday.

Really Tough Loss.

“DONT STOP OR WE'LL DIE show at UCB sunset!”

Harris Wittels tweeted that on Monday. Don’t Stop or We’ll Die was the name of his band. Three days later, he died – of a drug overdose at the age of 30.

Harris wanted to be an actor, but when the work wasn’t really coming, he took writing by the horns, first for “The Sarah Silverman Program” and then as a writer and executive producer for “Parks and Recreation,” my favorite sitcom. Three years ago, he outed himself as the creator of the term and Twitter feed “humblebrag,” which he’d been posting anonymously for many months.

If you’re not familiar with humblebrags, check out this column Harris wrote for Grantland, and you’ll see how prolific he was. All the more reason he’ll be missed.

Lunch With The Knuckleheads.

My E! True Hollywood Story would just be me trying to open a soy sauce packet.

Others’ would be a tad more interesting. Like creating Funny or Die with Will Ferrell at age 17. I had lunch with the guys from Beautimus a couple weeks ago. They’re a team who mostly directs comedy shorts and commercials, but they’re all double and triple threats – actors, composers, editors and killer writers. I shot a few things with them recently, and they craft everything they do into perfect comedy bits. I can’t keep up with them just having simple conversations.

Keep an eye out for these guys. They’re the shit.

Lesson Learned.

If TV has taught me one thing, it’s to take three five-minute breaks every half hour.

And now, sketch comedy videos are educating me. I tried to shoot a scene using a real cab driver, and mission completely not accomplished. These dudes sure didn’t want their face on camera for whatever reason, no matter how much cash I offered. Sucks.

Well played, INS.

My 2200th Entry.

I’m like Mark Twain meets Michael Jordan. I can write; but I’m also a world-class gambler.

And I sure have written a lot on this blog. I like reaching a milestone, and celebrate by recalling my favorite posts from the last 100:

I’M ON A PODCAST. Put a nickel in me and I can go on and on. Take a listen here.

31 Seconds Of October. Disclaimer: my life isn’t nearly as interesting as this looks. Take a gander here. 

“American Idol” Announces Two-Night, Three-Hour Premiere Event. Bleach: surprisingly refreshing. Swig some here. 

Day 2: Does New York Make Me Look Fat? I still haven’t lost my Christmas weight. Better just save it for next year. Exceed the maximum caloric intake here.

For All My Wives. And My Girlfriends. Hallmark invented this holiday just so I educate the ladies. Take copious notes here.

A To Eesh.

High of the three-day weekend thus far: XM nailing the Valentine’s Day playlist.

And the low: reminder that I gotta buy my own place, so that I no longer share a dryer and find a used band-aid in my clean clothes.

Boner Eliminated.

I Will Never Get Tired Of Seeing These.

For All My Wives. And My Girlfriends.

Every Valentine’s Day, I like to list ten things I think women should know about men. But it’s mainly geared to all you single ladies, so married chicks, here’s one for you: to keep things interesting in the bedroom, try bringing in a second laptop.

Back to those of you temporarily in-between dudes. I love you, and I’ve been thinking about you. Here are my thoughts this year:

1. Yes, men are weird. Want us to lick your crotch? Sure! Want us to come to the farmer’s market with you? Aw, MANNN... 
2. If you’re on a date and reading this, it’s probs not going well. 
3. Let me simplify this: have sex with us every night unless we say not to. 
4. Never reveal to us how many cats you have. 
5. A flight attendant in the streets, a TSA agent in the sheets. 
6. “If only she had a more expensive purse, THEN she’d be hot.” – no guy ever. 
7. We can’t wait for you to go to the bathroom so we can check our phones. 
8. Women on Facebook who quote “If you can’t handle me at my worst, then you don't deserve me at my best” are usually always at their worst. 
9. We don’t fantasize about sleeping with your sister. But we do fantasize about hitting her with our car. 
10. We try to hide the flash of disappointment in our faces when you tell us you have a great relationship with your dad.

Helpin’ A Brother Out.

People who learned a bunch of stuff must’ve felt pretty stupid when Wikipedia came out.

Thank goodness my college experience included being a member of a fraternity. But the degenerate memories faded a few years after I graduated, when the then-current idiots in my frat at the University of Maryland, Tau Epsilon Phi, were kicked out of our house. My nostalgic side took another blow when the apartment complex I spent so much time in during upperclassman years was recently leveled.

But I received unexpected news the other day: Tau Epsilon Phi is moving back into the old house. Memories restored.

I know someone else who’ll be happy. Long before I was a member, Larry David was a TEΦ brother at Maryland. Someday when I bump into him, we’ll celebrate with the secret handshake. A very, very white, secret handshake.

Friends In High Places.

I remember the face of every person who doesn’t say “thank you” when I hold open the door for them.

And I definitely don’t forget the really considerate folks. All I did was mention to my friend John Hunter that I was finishing up my latest comedy short, and he told me to send it to him.

John was the composer for the animated short that won the Oscar in 2012, and over the weekend, he took my short and blew me away with a score that is epic.

So now I have a video that was shot beautifully with stellar music from one of the most talented guys on the planet. Anyone know John’s shirt size?

Downward Trajectory.

It began so perfectly, the weekend. Good drinks, good company, perfect setting: Art’s Table on Montana.

And ended with this dude at a car wash. I threw up in my mouth a little.

My Christmas Wish-List Begins Now.

Carry-on luggage with flip-down scooter. If it makes me a hipster, so be it.

Talk About Range.

Children’s dentistry AND breast implants? Much respect.

Hello Old Friend.

My friends Aina, Bru and Emil are going to start teaching an acting class soon, and I want to give them the perfect studio-warming gift.

And I know just what to get them: a smelly couch.

No acting class is complete without one. No makeout scene is nearly awkward enough without one. And forget scouring Craigslist to find it. You don’t buy a smelly couch; you discover one. By a dumpster. In the parking lot of a porn sound-stage.

I took the above pic on Saturday at a casting workshop, and this was one top-shelf smelly couch. I stared at it like it was the briefcase from Pulp Fiction. Before my ears teared up and I dry-heaved.

I Only Did This Interview So I Wouldn’t Get Fined.

When I first came out to LA, I stayed with my brother, in a guest room with a carpeted bathroom. It was the worst thing to happen to interior design since NBA players started making millions of dollars.

You’ll always remember your first place here fondly. And yesterday, I was interviewed by Backstage, the weekly trade magazine for actors, to see if I had some tips for actors about moving here. I was happy to oblige:

The Secret To Getting Settled in LA

31 Seconds Of January.

“You’re always on your cell phone.” Well, you’re always on my nerves. 

And I’m using my phone for good, not evil. My month of January, one second per day:  

Super Bowl Party: An iPhone 6™ Photo Gallery.

Forget kale – the unofficial food of Los Angeles is street dogs. Bacon-wrapped hot dogs grilled on shopping carts outside of ballgames and clubs. Someone brought an unbelievable batch to the party, and I wanna impregnate her/him.

I may be a grown-ass man, but I’m not a drinker, so this was my contribution to the party. My friend and party co-host Al found it utterly hilarious.

Every Super Bowl party in the country had the obligatory deflated ball. Every Super Bowl party in LA had the accompanying Emmy.

Thank goodness this ball, made entirely of chocolate, was fully inflated.

A TV in the bathroom, so you never miss a play. (At least those of us who pee standing up.)