That’s Cold.

On Thanksgiving, I officially hit the “I guess these shrank in the dryer” phase of my weight-gain denial.

Except I don’t have a working dryer at the moment. Or heat. Or hot water.

Saturday afternoon, my neighbor knocked on my door and said he and his wife thought they smelled gas along the side of my place. And holy shit did I get a lesson in how fast people hop-to during a possible gas leak.

The gas company was here within 20 minutes, and discovered there really was a leak, thanks to corroding pipes. Living by the ocean is murder on metal.

The gas for my place was shut off, and this lock placed on the valve until the pipes get replaced and then blessed by the gas company:

I imagine the lock sees some action with people who don’t pay their bill.

Also hustling: my property’s management company, who came out Saturday night, and then again yesterday, and are having plumbers come by to start the job today. It’ll take a few days to fix, and it’s really chilly now, so it kinda sucks shit. Freezing apartment. Freezing shower.

Before anyone says “It’s LA – permanently 72°,” last night’s low here was 45°. But before I bitch too much, I must remind myself after seeing The Martian over the weekend that conditions could be a lot worse. Sounds crazy, but see the film and you’ll know what I mean. (See it anyway. It’s even better than I imagined.)

Gotta go find an afghan. Starting to see my breath.

And It Ain’t The Liquor Talking.

I spent the evening at the Surly Goat last night, where they decided to show Sleepy Hollow on the TVs. (They have a Netflix subscription, which is simple yet brilliant.) It left me with one major question: why isn’t anyone naming their baby Ichabod anymore?

Can’t Talk. Eating.

Nothing like Thanksgiving with your family to remind you that you can't “win” against crazy.

So it’s good to mix in a bunch of friends. Hope yours was as nice as mine.

I Give Thanks.

I Give Thanks. Thanks for listening, pictures of breasts.

Yeah, it’s a great holiday. And as is tradition, I like to thank everything that made my blog possible this past year:

• Animatronic dairy bands 
• Chocolate crema hazelnut crumble at Osteria La Buca 
• The under renovation shithole that is Courtyard by Marriott 
• The “No Concealed Weapons” sign at the Red Cross 
• Smelly casting workshop couch 
• A children’s dentistry and breast implant practice 
• The old woman who crossed the street running 
• Harley guy waving to dude on a pink scooter 
• TV’s “please do not hit children” reminders 
• The gentleman who required two stylists to trim his comb-over 
• Bilingual babe-magnet puppies 
• Dog trainers who boot their own trailers 
• Spaghetti and beetballs Line drives to my head 
• Riding in cars with elderly Asians 
• O’Neill Men’s “Murca” beer pong boardshort 
• An allergy to water 
• Cars from Enterprise that reek of weed 
• The John F. Kennedy Gentleman’s Lounge 
• Stray cows 
• Pakistani Hitler 
• Man pissing in Herald Square

First Rule Of PBS Fight Club:

Nobody talks about fight club around Mr. Rogers.

Happy Birthday, Old Man.

Ricky turns four today. But in people years, the drool makes him about 98.

My Christmas Gift To You.

I’m going to buy this used meter maid vehicle, and on behalf of everyone who’s received a bullshit parking ticket, drive it off a cliff.

Round One.

Every Thanksgiving, we all go home to our families and face our own personal Senate hearings.

Nice to get in a rehearsal.

It’s Time To Play “Count the Number of Ways You Can Ruin A Tesla.”

In My Dreams.

As a kid, I assumed the best thing about being an adult would be going to bed as late as I wanted. Little did I realize it’s the opposite.

Sleep is awesome. Usually. The other night I dreamed a very intricate premise for a comedy sketch, which I’m going to attempt to actually shoot. It involves multiple tricky locations, from which I’m going to try to steal shots. Editing will be a bitch, too, but I’ll see if I can pull it off.

I have got to stop drinking Diet Dew before bed.

We Won’t Possibly Forget.

Friday’s attack on Paris was likely to have been modeled after an attack on Mumbai in 2008, in which an Islamic militant group killed 171 people across the city. The first target was the Leopold Café and Bar, an English pub in downtown Mumbai, where they killed six customers and two waiters.

When I was in Mumbai in August, my friends and I had drinks at the Leopold. Over my friend Tom’s shoulder is a bullet hole from the attack. Here’s another:

The place has become a shrine of defiance against terrorism. Every time you see the reaction to any attack, it’s an unquestionable reminder: the terrorists will never win.

Game Planning.

I’ve won fantasy football by never ever playing it.

I’d rather coach the real thing – or at least an actor. Last night, I helped my friend Ariel (that’s him getting his face smashed by Danny Trejo) prepare for two auditions he has today for two network dramas.

I must say I got him to a very good place, and if he books neither one, I’d be surprised. I feel like I'm bringing a child into the world. This must have been how Dr. Frankenstein felt.

Exhibit A.

Love to take photos with your cell phone? I’m all for it. Instagram me like one of your French Bulldogs.

But I’ll really have respect if you get serious about photography, like my friend Josh, who had a showing of his work Saturday night in Venice.

Every shot had an interesting perspective. Sometimes Josh will spot someone interesting wandering about, and surreptitiously follow them and snap away. Down one hallway in the gallery was a series of photos of words from signage, which when read consecutively formed a poem. Super original.

Really nice work, Josh. Thanks for letting me add a little more culture to my life. Okay, fine – culture, period.

Getting My Inner-Child Drunk.

Come In To The Coast.

If a museum exhibit doesn't involve dogs playing poker, I'm not sure I want to be involved.

And yet I visited the MOCA Pacific Design Center yesterday, and the very trippy installation Cameron: Songs for the Witch Woman. It featured pitch-black rooms and sounds of seagulls and ocean. Somehow the artist was able to pump in real coastal humidity as well. Moving shapes of leaves and marine life projected onto the floor appeared to be floating.

 It runs until January 11th, so check it out and explain it to me enjoy.

Once Again, Out-Of-Context Thank-You Notes I’ve Recently Written To Casting Directors.

• So, if I accept Jesus as my Lord and Savior I get to spend all of eternity with people like Mike Huckabee? Hard pass.

• There’s a small part of me that is staying alive just to see what happens to Tom Cruise.

• It’s capable of being the heart-shaped tub of Poconos honeymoons.

• That is a face only a Munich-trained technician could love.

• If I pay $40 for a haunted house, I better die.

Not Quite.

I’ll never mention I have an upcoming audition. Not because I’m superstitious – I’m really not – but because talking about it a lot kind of spoils the thrill of the audition. As with a kilt, less is often more.

But I’ll mention one after the fact. It happened recently, for “Modern Family”. And it went really well. You know when you’re nailing an audition, and it helped that executive producer Danny Zuker told me he really loved what I did. But the call that I booked the role never came.

It turns the scene was cut from that episode before they even shot it, so it was out of my hands.

The above pic is from the casting office of “Modern Family”, which features the headshots of every actor who’s ever appeared on the show. Still room for one more.

Food – Going Full Brazilian.

More pics from my trip, this time focusing on all the yumminess. Including: how Brazilians stay so thin is anybody’s guess, because every restaurant comes complete with a gigantic buffet. Pack your stretch jeans.

Figueira Rubaiyat is a restaurant in São Paulo that’s built around a 100-year-old fig tree. I asked our confused waiter if the figs were fresh.

We bought a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue at the bar in Figueira. It’s the most expensive of the Johnnie Walkers, and comes with a carrying case and a set of crystal glasses. Top-shelf alcoholism.

Coming straight from India, where beef is practically illegal, I considered this the “Welcome to Brazil” sign.

Jardineira Grill is a classic Brazilian steakhouse in which meat is brought to your table and cut directly onto your plate. You can only summon up the appetite to visit a place like this once every few years. We went there twice in three days.

The Sixth Great Movie Of 2015.

Some pieces of writing are more important than others. My blog, for example, is meant to be read when you’re super bored or have diarrhea.

But the coverage of the 2001 Boston Catholic Church sex scandal was so essential, it won a Pullitzer for the Boston Globe Spotlight team, a super undercover investigative unit.

The true story is told in Spotlight, and it’s an amazingly crafted film. It’s the new All the President’s Men. No big courtroom scenes, no private lives of the reporters – just a fascinating tale executed beautifully.

This is maybe the best movie of the year. A true story, in which the actual events actually happened. It’s inspiring and depressing, and gripping, and a film that really needed to be made. I can’t recommend it enough.

Suck It, ISIS.

Halloween egg nog.

Who Wore It Better?

Derek Jeter’s dog Kane, or Ricky?

Getting The Boy Band Back Together.

I bet whenever the guy who invented giving someone the finger was flipped off for the first time, he was probably a little flattered.

I hope the same goes for my friend Bru, because whenever I bump into our mutual friend Emil, we text Bru an obligatory finger pic. The one above is our latest, from Monday night.

Emil is a super-talented actor who was cool enough to agree to be in a new comedy short that I wrote. We were supposed to shoot it a few months ago, but got waylaid by my big trip.

But now we’re back on, and our friend Gary has agreed to direct it. Gary is currently working on his second project for Martin Scorcese, something he directed and is editing. He told me yesterday that he only says yes to Martin and me. Opposite of the finger to you, sir.

Judge My Dental Hygienist By Her Gloves.

I wanted to get my wisdom teeth out solely to make a cute viral video of what I would say coming out of anesthesia. But I feared it would get way too racist.

I’ll stick to a good cleaning. I found a great, new, honest dentist, after my last one turned into a virtual veterinarian, trying to push shit on me I don’t need.

It was a thorough cleaning. Oh, and ironically, a few hours after my dental appointment, I donated blood for real, at the Red Cross. It was far less painful.

31 Seconds Of October.

Including Ricky helping himself to my neighbor’s Halloween display:

You Stay Classy, UK.

CBS oughta be careful when cutting to the crowd during NFL games n London, because Brits will spontaneously give the finger… For Halloween, my nephew dressed as what he referred to as a rock ‘n roll “person”, which isn’t very rock ‘n roll… I’m not home often on Halloween night, but I was early Saturday evening, and had the first trick-or-treaters ever show up at my place. I was unprepared, so they all got cash… And finally, I can sum up the Mets, and their performance in the World Series, in two words: lip balm.