Breakfast All Day.

Blood is thicker than water. Maple syrup is thicker than blood. So pancakes are more important than family. There, I said it.

My friend TJ would wholeheartedly agree. Wednesday was national pancake day, and TJ, ever so patriotic, had three orders delivered by Uber Eats and went to town. I had a nibble of the chocolate pancakes. He inhaled the rest.

America. F yeah.

Coming Up On “Hucksters”.

I got kicked out of the procrastinators club when I showed up for our first meeting.

Writing is a bitch, but somehow I’ve been plowing through the procrastination to write four new episodes of my sitcom. And tonight, co-star Ben Pace and I are getting together for a two-man table read.

Next week, we’re heading to a party to put the full-court press on an actor to appear on the show. I miss accomplishing nothing already.

End Of An Era.

It’s impossible to ruin something that’s already terrible. It’s like adding more moms to Facebook.

But destroying something great is very doable. “Inside the Actors’ Studio”, the show that inspired my blog, is going through a massive revamp, in which it will move to the Ovation Network and rotate six hosts, with James Lipton “participating in some sort of minor role”. (He’s surprisingly 92 years old. Nice run.)

While I could always do without James fellating guests so much, he does deserve credit for creating and sustaining a really fascinating show. Even civilians found actors chatting about their craft/process undeniably watchable.

I worry now it will just be another interview show that lacks the heft of the original. And try finding the Ovation Network without a map and a mining light.

I’m experiencing all five stages of grief at once right now. Join me.

Lost Shots From The Set.

Whenever I see an empty pizza box in a neighbor’s garbage can, I get jealous that someone had a better night than I did.

And when I see it’s from my favorite pizza place – Mulberry Street – my heart breaks just a little. So imagine how I felt when a prop on my own sitcom shoot was forbidden fruit. Well, forbidden pizza.

It was all a necessary part of a flashback scene, in which I was teased beyond SAG safe workplace standards and not allowed to consume slice after slice. Sure, I threw myself down a flight of stairs, but this was real physical agony. Never again.

Cancelado.

For me, the worst form of punishment is installing Windows 10 on your laptop.

For my nephew, it’s being grounded in his room. (You know you’re a grownup when solitary confinement sounds like a reward, not a punishment.) I believe he earned this for having a meltdown Saturday night, as his mom wanted him to try on some clothes.

I’d promised him I’d help him make churros yesterday, but that was no longer on the schedule after he wigged, and yummy goodness was postponed. Hopefully he’ll have earned some prison yard time by next week.

Quadrupsies.

The one upside to having quadruplets is that you instantly have enough babies to juggle.

I was mesmerized by these four girls at an audition this week, completely identical, super cute, and very tight with each other.

It’s always interesting, this business. I love it.

Breaking Good.

Some people won’t try bacon for religious reasons. I won’t try religion for bacon reasons.

That’s why I wait until my Jews are done with their Yom Kippur fast, and help them break that fast at my friend Marc and Lisa’s house.

Oh yes, there were blintzes – a variety of blintzes. And quiches and bagels, and then dessert was served.

Luckily, this only happens once a year, or else I’d have to contact the DMV about revamping the weight on my license.

I Have Several Thoughts.

My life is a constant battle between wanting to correct grammar and wanting to have friends.

Nerds – you don’t mind if I call you that? – will recognize my plight this morning as I encountered the above sign at my gym. Obviously in this toss-up between “remodel” and “renovation”, the result was a tie. Unless they were going for “remuneration”, and needed to close up shop to pay someone. Most likely not a tutor.

Either way, use a word three times and it’s yours.

I Love This.

Nice guys don’t finish last. Fat guys do.

Nice guys take home the trophies, like Henry Winkler did last night.

Henry is known for being one of the sweetest guys in Hollywood. If he sees you in a role he likes, he’ll write you a note by hand to let you know. So I was thrilled he won an Emmy last night for one of my favorite shows, “Barry”. (Bill Hader, also one of the friendliest guys, who created and stars in “Barry”, won as well. Great night.)

Henry was nominated for his first Emmy in 1976, but won his first last night. In his acceptance speech, he said, “If you stay at the table long enough, the chips come to you.”

It’s good to see that these days, really bad guys get thrown out of showbiz, and the good guys get rewarded.

Free Weekend.

I was having a good weekend until my plans got cancelled. Then I had a great weekend.

It’s the best, isn’t it? I did all my favorite things. I went to a casting workshop for the new CBS show “The Neighborhood”, had drinks out, watched the Jets with the guys, and took Ricky to my nephew’s baseball and soccer games.

Puts things in perspective, too. One of my favorite things in LA is visible in the pic, to the left above my nephew, who’s playing shortstop. Even on a sweltering hot summer day, the snow on the LA mountains is so cool.

I don’t understand people who have to do massive things on weekends. You just did things all week. What’s next, more things? That’s how they get you.

Little Late, Apple.

I’m thinking about turning the gigantic bruise on my hip into a permanent tattoo – in case anyone ever asks me to help them move.

That said, what were you doing, Apple, as I lay on my garage floor last month, thinking I was concussed? Very slowly figuring out how to save me. This is on you.

Much Assembly Required.

I’m planning on editing every Bachelorette episode into one watchable show. Is Vine still a thing?

On a better note, my sitcom is ready to be put together, and I’m in talks with a couple different editors. One in LA, one out of town. The above hard drive contains all my favorite takes. It never leaves my hand.

Meanwhile, I’ve been writing the next episodes, which is a swell concoction of pleasure and pain. I spend most of my day wishing I’d written a drama. Think about it: I’d have my wife die, then sulk about it for 22 episodes while friends occasionally console me with semi-profound advice. Writes itself.

Spot The Number Of Reasons This Guy Isn’t Getting Laid.

My 3200th Blog Entry.

I miss being a baby, because you get to have milestones. No one cares if you’re an adult and can roll over on a blanket.

The closest I get nowadays is reaching an obscene number of blog entries. As is customary, I’ve selected my favorite five of the last 100:

My Very First Painting. Actually, my first experience was spray-painting over water stains on my dorm’s ceiling. Settle for my second here.

A White-Crime Tour Through My Hometown, Led By Ollie Shevin. Part I. He came from mean streets of West Virginia. Follow him on the semi-scathed streets of Rye.

In Which I Visit The Orange County Fair. Part I. Stuffing my face is my civic duty. Get your hands, mouth, and shirt greasy here.

My Soap Opera Shoot. I paid for three flights and an unused Airbnb for this role. The least you can do is read about it.

Question For You. It’s more like ten questions. Okay, it’s a baker’s dozen here. 

Nice Try.

I received a text from my sister-in-law’s phone, regarding my nephew’s birthday.

I immediately sniffed out it was from my nephew, not-so-cleverly impersonating his mom. 40 bucks for the effort.

Very Proud Of This Girl.

My niece, lining up her shot: “What do you think?”
Me, acting as her caddy: “I think you should try your best?”

On her first day of high school, my niece found out she made the golf team. It’s super impressive, considering she lives in a pretty golf-popular area. (White folks love walking around outside in business casual.)

So now I am a fan of yet another sport, and no longer think the top uses for golf balls are describing hail storms and tumors.

Allow Me To Rant.

I really want to start going to regular services at a synagogue, just so I can yell out “Fake news!”

On the other hand, the phrase now has a bit of mileage on it. Facebook labels stories from sites like The Onion with #satire, to protect those of us who lack a first grader’s critical thinking skills.

But one story really is genuinely exaggerated to the detriment of many people. My alma mater, the University of Maryland, went through a tragedy a couple months ago, after a football player died of heatstroke. His parents hired a slick lawyer who specializes in badmouthing the people he’s suing, which is this case is my school.

He masterminded an article on ESPN.com, and to any of us who are well familiar with our football team, it was obviously fabricated. Yes, a bully of a strength coach ran the poor player excessively in the heat (and the coach has been rightfully fired), but ESPN’s shameless writer branded the program as having a “toxic culture”. America pounced.

One of the stories was about a player who was yanked out of a meeting simply for “smiling”, then told to transfer to another school. Here’s what a teammate told The Baltimore Sun really happened:

Or this, regarding head coach DJ Durkin:

But the damage is done. There’s an ass-full of mock outrage on Twitter calling the Maryland head coach a murderer (he’s been put on leave, but is loved by the players, who want him back) because of one, simple, libelous story. I love DJ Durkin, and it seems patently unfair he may lose his job merely to avoid a PR backlash because people LOVE to vent.

You know, there’s too much negativity in the air. People need to be kinder. I’ll start: Taco Bell’s nacho fries are not terrible. They now have 7% more Mexican seasoning. So there’s that.

DJ Durkin looked like he was doomed, but as an investigation is underway, there’s word out of College Park that he may actually keep his job, and if anyone reading this blog could refrain from wigging over it, much appreciated. Or, if you insist on posting an angry tweet, please add “Not you, Matt” at the end. Thank you.

31 Seconds Of August.

August is that time of year when it’s important to check in on friends with pools or boats to see how they’ve been since last summer.

Here’s my August, one second per day:
 

Winner.

The woman behind me at Food 4 Less had her long-weekend game plan dialed in: purchase enough food and booze to never have to leave the house for three days.

I’d like to claim second place. I had lunch out with friends, did some day drinking yesterday at Public School, won big money when my Maryland Terps embarrassed Texas for the second year in a row, and I answered the age-old question: How long do you have to wait between naps?

Back to work. Writing sitcom episodes two through six. Tanned, rested, and ready.

One Of Us Is Having A Kickass Labor Day Weekend.

Nothing like going to Simmzy’s, then coming home to Ricky reeking of burgers and betrayal.