Let’s Never Be Apart Again.

Get a big metal box, label it “TIME CAPSULE”, and take a big dump in it so people know what 2017 was like.

And if they want to know what 2012 was like, they can simply take a gander at my old laptop, which I was forced to recommission for the past two days while my newer MacBook was being repaired.

Working on the old piece of shit was as if I was wiped off the planet on January 1, 2013. An amazing glimpse into how fast technology progresses. One of my extra-older browers had MySpace bookmarked. And Sigalert, the live traffic site, because Waze hadn’t made it to the states four years ago. My main browser could barely play YouTube videos, as I couldn’t update to the latest iOS. My monitor was blurry, everything worked in super-slow motion, and instead of returning it to my closet, I wanted smash it with a golf club.

The Apple Store came through for me, not only fixing my MacBook for free, but saving all my data. And they had it ready for me in two days, instead of their estimated three to five. Weekend made.

Do They Charge For All The Extra Shit That Fell In The Tank? Asking For Me.

We’re Experiencing Technical Difficulties. Please Stand By.

My laptop went totally kablooie Monday night. So now I have to blog on my backup MacBook Pro like a god-dammed homeless person.

What I feared: my computer was dead, and I’d have to spend $4100 for a new one. What almost happened: a $700 repair bill. What actually happened: the extremely nice guy at the Genius Bar said he’d classify my flickering monitor as a defect, and Apple would fix it for free.

See how it’s done, United Airlines? Hook up your customers, and they’ll be more than loyal. When my laptop finally does die, you better believe I’ll spend four grand on a new one, you idiots.

Once Again, United, You Shouldn’t Have.

Hate flying? Try United Airlines. They do, too.

United proved once again what an utter delight they are when they denied a flight to two young girls because they were wearing leggings.

Is anybody surprised? I’ve been bitching about them for years, waiting for all of us to collective stop flying this completely corrupt airline.

United sends you a text at 6 a.m., as you sit waiting at the gate: “We heard reports that some guy saw a snowflake one time somewhere so we better cancel 5,000 flights.”

You know they’re bad when you’d still rather fly Malaysia Airlines. They don’t even fly into or out of New York any more – only Newark. My mom made the right call recently. She had about 80,000 miles with United, and just said F it, and used all the miles to buy two flat screens for her home. Then she dumped her United credit card. The first thing I'm going to do when I'm rich is buy a flight for everyone who works at United Airlines and then delay the flight forever.

In Which Ricky Recreates An Iconic Movie Scene.

We All Celebrate In Our Own Way.

I call all dogs “puppies”, regardless of age. They seem to like it.

Yesterday was National Puppy Day, and Ricky spent it the way he spends every day: starting shit with me while I try to eat dinner. I haven’t had a warm meal in five years.

Supporting An Actor.

I’m the kind of friend that will help you hide a dead body. But if you ever piss me off, just remember: I know how to hide a dead body.

I’ll spare my friend Ariel, because I owe him several dozen favors. Last night I paid one of them back, by helping put him put an audition on tape for a huge film.

By “huge” I mean the names in the scenes were changed to conceal characters, and the script had security settings that made it non-printable.

I’ve said too much. Glad I could help.

Wanna Go Halfsies?

Please don’t come to my garage sale if you've ever let me borrow something.

Speaking of selling shit that isn’t yours, I passed by a shop on La Cienega the other day that’s selling the original sign from Paramount Studios. Want to own a piece of showbiz history? All you need is 30 grand.

You know who can afford it? Paramount Studios. How have they not snatched it up? Arrival grossed $197 million.

Wait – I checked. Paramount is looking to post more than $500 million in losses from 2016 and 2017.

Still, maybe they can throw a bake sale.

Games On.

I show up for my nephew’s Little League games because it’s important that he knows I’ll swear at other kids, too.

Opening day has arrived, and I’m glad it’s here. My brother is coaching my nephew’s team again, and I’m there Friday nights and Sunday mornings, always armed with gum.

It’s tradition for the cousins to share a moment between innings.

Obstructing my view is LA Clipper forward Brandon Bass, whose son is one of my nephew’s teammates. Every dad fawns all over Brandon during games. Less fanatic: the ump on the left, full of chutzpah, about to tell Brandon to get off the field and close the gate.

The Four Bars Of St. Pat’s Weekend.

Are potatoes so much healthier if they’re baked? My friend Greg is baked all the time, and he’s got diabetes.

Still, I loved kicking the weekend off with a baked potato bar. Then shifting gears to more appropriate St. Patrick’s Day bars – the ones offering liquor.

The Sunset Marquis is where all the biggest musicians stay while in town. Seal is there right now. It’s also where my friend Rob is staying while he shoots some commercials here. The back bar there is a hidden, outdoor, perfect spot across a little bridge in West Hollywood.

From there, we stopped by the bar at Barton G., which you may remember from last month’s post about the craziest dishes around. No food this time – only the outrageously decadent drinks. Best $46 buzz in town.

You can have your Taco Bell when you get the munchies, but for those of us who find the cheese to lettuce ratio way off, there’s Fig & Olive. We sat at the bar and had crab cakes and carrot and ginger soup. Even my stoned friend Greg would prefer it over a taco with a friend chicken shell.

Best Gravity-Defying Miso Soup In Town.

Fly The Phenomenal Skies.

As I was about to get out of bed at 5:30 a.m. on December 17th, I received a text from JetBlue. Because it was snowing in New York, my flight there had been delayed a few hours. I reset my alarm and happily went back to sleep.

Meanwhile, if my flight had been on United Airlines, I would have found out it was delayed as I pulled into LAX. And United would have charged me $25 for the bags under my eyes.

No charge from JetBlue. In fact, they paid me – $50 toward my next flight, because they felt bad. An act of God, and yet they still were generous. Who does that?

I’ve now cashed in the 50 bucks and booked a flight to New York in May. My little brother and I are going to go to a Yankee game/Derek Jeter’s number retirement on my birthday. The opposite of flying United.

Love you, JetBlue. Love you.

White Out.

Fog is like lingerie for the sky.

And the sky here has been downright slutty the last few days, with the densest fog we’ve had in years.

Case in point: I took the above pic of a lacrosse practice at Mira Costa High School. (“Mira costa” is ironically Spanish for “look at the coast”, which we haven’t seen since Friday night.) If a player scored, it’d be his word against the goalie’s.

Obligatory science lesson: it’s been warming up here, and when the hot air flows over the ocean, which is super cold because the current comes down from Alaska, the air cools and condenses, and we get fog. Then the fun begins. Since you can barely see your hand in front of your face, driving is a formidable task. And you’d better have your head on a swivel walking your dog when a car comes flying past.

Gotta go. Seeya later. Sort of.

Hard Pass.

Sorry I reported your newborn’s pic on Instagram, but nudity is nudity.

Actually, I have no problem with nudeness, if it serves a purpose. The above casting notice doesn’t seem to have one. A naked comedy show. It’s gotta be the one time on stage you’ll REALLY want to picture everyone in their underwear. Forgive me, but even Playboy knew to get out the naked business.

So I’m going to somewhat-respectfully decline. And for God’s sake, anyone who does attend this thing – please wait until you arrive to change into wardrobe.

St. Patrick’s Tech Rehearsal.

Some call it alcoholism, I call it “keeping your emotions hydrated”.

The sign in front of O’Hara’s last night pretty much encapsulated the entire weekend.

Also worth noting: thanks to daylight savings, the clock on my oven is finally right again.

Logan’s Crawl.

Have you ever heard someone honking so aggressively for so long that you’re like “This was never about the traffic, was it?”

That’ll be my evening tonight, because I’m going to see Logan. But I’ll be down in Orange County beforehand, then driving to Hollywood during rush hour – which means it’s going to take me an hour and 45 minutes to get there.

I presume that will qualify me as having made the longest trek in the world to see Logan. Does that entitle me to anything? A Marvel koozie, perhaps.

An hour and 45 is a beast. It’s a road trip. You could drive from Manhattan to Philly in that time. Only this culminates with me sitting in a theater for two hours and 13 minutes. Eh – my fat ass will tear this up.

Frame Of Reference.

Any time someone says, “Have you seen that YouTube video?”, always say yes – because otherwise he’ll make you watch it on his phone.

A video I’m proud of was shot last night. I couldn’t make it to an audition for a really good role in a film, so my friend Ariel was super helpful and put me on tape. Thanks for the assist, sir.

By the way, quick acting vocab lesson, since a civilian friend of mine laughed at me for calling it “on tape”. Actually, being put on tape is very much an industry term these days for shooting your own audition, and used by all casting directors and actors, in case you want to seem like a pro. Use it three times and it’s yours.

“The Danza.”

/THē danzə/
noun 
Named for Tony Danza, for his frequent portrayal of people named Tony.

Take Two.

When a dish comes out of the dishwasher still dirty, I put it back in for another round, because I believe in second chances.

Looks like Debra Sullivan is getting hers. I blogged about her mutant headshot a year ago yesterday, and now she’s attempting round two. May God have mercy on her soul.

My 2800th Blog Post.

I’ll try anything like seventeen times.

And some things a whole lot more. As is tradition, here are my five favorite entries from the last 100:

New York: A Photo Essay. Bedbugs, hookers and overalls – this entry has range. Give it a gander here. 

The 2016 UNICEF Halloween Masquerade Ball. The most fun you can have for the price of a down-payment on a house. Spend it with me. 

I Got To Say It Was A Good Actor Day. Aaron Eckhardt and I savor the moment. Join us. 

In Which I Lose My Shit Over A Film. Just my opinion, but I think the end of the Oscars was a fiasco in reverse. My winner is here. 

A Valentine’s Gift To All My Ladies. If I can help just one woman get laid, I’ve done my job. Spoon with me and enjoy.

House Of Worship.

I never understood why everyone talked so fast in old movies. What was the hurry? There was nothing to do back then.

The old flicks don’t really do it for me, with one major exception: anything with the Marx Brothers. I love them. It’s partially because I’m the middle of three boys, and my brothers and I watched every Marx Brothers movie with our dad over and over again. He really loved them, too. But mainly, the Marx Brothers were so far ahead of their time. They weren’t doing the asinine Three Stooges bits – they were smart and hilarious and always consistent.

For a little while, I took an acting class with Groucho Marx’s granddaughter Jade, and had to really contain my infatuation with her family. Then, last week, I passed Groucho’s old house in Beverly Hills and was immediately star struck. It encompassed everything LA is to me.

As actors, we’re always searching for our motivation. I kinda found mine.

28 Seconds Of February.

Shout out to all the hotel maids who had to change sheets on February 15th.

 I trust the rest of us had a good month. I know I did. Here it is, one second per day:

 

He Didn’t Choose The Bug Life. The Bug Life Chose Him.