Happy Other Holiday.

Vandalism should be allowed on any vehicle whose alarm has been going off for more than five minutes. 

Also, every October 30th. Mischief Night back in New York. It’s sort of the like The Purge, only it’s not yet sanctioned by the government. 

You know the holiday goes back centuries because it’s the only way to explain kids using the old-timey word “mischief.” We were true artisans when it came to rotten eggs, toilet paper and flaming bags of poop. And then we had the unmitigated gall the next night to hit up the houses we soiled for candy. Simpler times. 

To those of you in the old neighborhood: earn this.

Begrudging Congratulations.

If I could invent a time machine, I wouldn’t go back and kill Hitler. I’d be the first comedian to make the “Why don’t they make the whole plane out of the black box?” joke. 

Only instead of the black box – it should be League Baseball jersey t-shirts – shirseys, as they’re regrettably called. My Paul O’Neill Yankees version has been worn and washed every week for 27 years, and the numbers are just now starting to fade. 

When I was relatively new to LA, my Yankees came into town for a rare series with the Dodgers. My friends and I bought tickets and I wore my O’Neill shirt to the game, where I was pelted with sunflower seeds and verbal abuse for seven full innings by some dangerous-looking winners sitting behind us because I had the unmitigated gall to wear a visiting team’s shirt. In the eighth inning, I snapped and yelled at them. They denied doing anything. Pussies. The sunflower seeds continued. And then my friend Jeff, a calmer man than I, turned to them and said, “I know you paid a lot for these seats. You want me to get you kicked out?” They stopped. 

Since then, I have quietly yet intensely rooted against the Dodgers. (Though after they lost in the World Series a few years ago, I not so quietly called my niece, had her hand the phone to my nephew, a big Dodgers fan, and laughed at him like DeNiro in Cape Fear.) I also enacted a new rule: so much as one piece of anything hits me at a game, I’m getting the stadium cops involved. 

Two nights ago, the planets aligned for the Dodgers and they won the World Series. I was conflicted. The city lit up with some overdue celebrating, and while my nephew and I torment each other about our teams, I was happy for him. I’m glad he roots for his hometown guys. Seconds after the Dodgers clinched the series, I found the newly-posted online shop selling championship gear, forwarded it to my nephew, and within five minutes he purchased a hat and a t-shirt. A t-shirt which will still be going strong in 2047. 

I am older and wiser since the “incident,” and realize today I have lot of cool friends who are very good people and very good Dodger fans. I’m glad their team won. Sports mostly make you sad. The Dodgers couldn’t get it together for 32 years, but Tuesday night, they earned it and deserved it. Good job. 

An Excerpt.

When I call 911, I’m going to do a Christopher Walker impersonation to briefly amuse the jurors at my trial. 

But my skills will never measure up to those of Martin Short. While searching for something in his book, I Must Say, which I read last year and loved, I came across the following passage that begins with a film he shot with Nick Nolte: 

There was a scene in Three Fugitives in which Nick had to wear hospital scrubs, and that became his basic look, I think, for years thereafter. Circa 2005, more than fifteen years after we’d worked together, I was at the Toronto Film Festival, staying at the Four Seasons, when who should walk into the elevator but Nick Nolte – in hospital scrubs. Not having noticed me, he took his place at the front. I had, during our time on Three Fugitives, developed a dead-on impression of him. In my most ravaged, guttural Nolte voice, I croaked, “I hear Nick Nolte’s an asshole.”  

Nick didn’t know it was me, and in hindsight, he might very well have turned around and punched me in the face. Arguably, he should have. But he merely pivoted partway, not even bothering to look back, and said resignedly in his most ravaged, guttural Nolte voice, “I don’t disagree.”

Justified.

I watched a guy pull out of 7-Eleven with his coffee on top of his car. I could have warned him, but I’m out of stuff to watch.

It’s A Wrap. An Appreciation.

While shopping for clothing for my new headshots, I was brutally owned by a small child when I came out of the dressing room in a plaid shirt and she said, “Nice lumberjack costume.” 

Words hurt, lady. Luckily, it happened in one of my happy places: It’s a Wrap, a store in Burbank that carries wardrobe formerly used in TV shows and movies. 

The place has some size, loaded with racks of men’s and women’s clothing and shoes, very gently used. Within minutes of our arrival, the stylist who accompanied me found a dozen nice shirts for me to try on. All potential winners. No surprise – they were purchased by the most talented wardrobe people in the business. 

The tags are coded to let you know which production each item is from. This never stops being cool.

The stuff that’s too valuable for resale, like Sylvester Stallone’s shorts from Rocky III and Rocky IV, make the wall. 

I bought three shirts, a sweater, two jackets (including a sport coat that retails for $200) and two ties for a grand total of $68. I almost shit. (In my own pants – not theirs.)

Gone Shopping.

Hey, “greatest generation” – why is every thrift store filled with ceramic clowns? 

I’m going to a real thrift store tomorrow – a fancy one, if you can believe that – with a stylist to find clothes to wear in my new headshots. I’ll have more when I blog about it on Monday. Natilly clad, of course.

A Very 2020 Christmas To You.

But First, This.

After upstaging me in 68 quarantine videos, he was long overdue for his first headshot.

Toss This.

For $5, I will comment “yikes” under one of your actor friends’ online headshots. 

Yes, we performers are very particular about our headshots, but we should be so that they help us gain auditions. That is their only purpose. 

It’s good to refresh them from time to time, and now is my time. Two weeks from today I’ll be shooting new ones. So I’m now in pre-pro mode for my shoot, which includes clothes-shopping this Saturday with a stylist  and timing my next haircut perfectly. (My hair has always hit its perfect peak one week after its cut.) May the planets and the gods align.

The Clean Plato Club.

My date: Is Mexican Food ok for dinner? Don’t just text back k. 

Me: Que 

Gotta give my favorite Mexican restaurant the respect it deserves. I had my first meal at Petty Cash since the pandemic began, and the food was as good as ever. The atmosphere, however, is… different. 

I miss eating inside at Petty Cash. On a crowded night, with its raised tables and chairs in close proximity, the place just captures the positive energy I love about LA. 

They’re making-do for now. Because the restaurant is sandwiched between several furniture stores, which close early. So Petty Cash can set up tables as wide as an entire block on Beverly Blvd. 

When you go there (not if), the absolute mandatories are: guacamole – the best I’ve ever had, served with warm chips; dorados – tightly-rolled fried potato tacos; and buñelos – churro balls served in chocolate sauce. 

De nada.

Big Idea.

I react to the UPS guy delivering my Amazon package the way geese react to people with bread. 

That’s why I understand porch pirates, even though they should burn for what they do. I thought about them as I passed the box in the pic above – a delivery of yams. 

Then an idea hit me: how do you keep people from stealing deliveries? Make them believe they’re yams. No one likes them. Let’s make this Amazon’s new packaging. Fake boxes of yams. Instant pots will reach kitchens. Insulin will make it to patients. Crime will drop to a new low. Genius. 

It turns out it wasn’t yams – it was from Yamibuy, an Asian grocery site. Yeah, but still.

Join Me.

I want this election to be over so badly, you’d think it was a friend’s play. 

Yes, it’s that special time every four years when we find out who we really shouldn’t be friends with anymore. Regardless, I dropped my ballot into a box last week. You should do the same. 

Remember: the shitty mayor from Jaws is still the mayor in Jaws 2. Vote.

Along With My Will To Live.

So breakfast in bed is luxurious, but when I eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner in bed, suddenly it’s “depression.” 

I may have done a lot of that over the weekend, after my Yankees were knocked out of the playoffs Friday night. I watch every game every season, so you can imagine the emptiness a loss like this creates. 

Thank you for the thoughts and prayers. In lieu of gifts, I’m asking for Edible Arrangements.

The Orange County Fair Food Drive-Thru.

Someday, I want a role in which my character eats a chili dog. I’ll keep screwing up my lines so that they have to keep bringing me chili dogs. 

I can eat. Therefore the I love the OC Fair. I go every year with my brother’s family, always joking with my nephew that I’m there for the “rides.” He knows better. Surrounding the rides is wall-to-wall junk food. It takes place every summer on giant, dedicated concrete fairgrounds (so big and perfect, developers have salivated for years trying to turn the property into a massive apartment complex.) 

This year, because of the pandemic, the fair was cancelled – an unfortunate loss for hundreds of vendors – so they wisely shifted to a drive-through food-only experience, and extended it through October. I went there Saturday, picked up a massive amount of treats, and surprised my brother with them. 

Left lane is for ordering food, right lane is for passing. I regret not picking up deep-fried bacon-wrapped shrimp. 

Here’s what made it to my house: cinnamon bun, Australian battered potatoes (I read there’s no such thing, but we Americans will fall for this yummy shit), mac ‘n cheese egg rolls and a giant turkey leg. Deep-fried cookie dough stayed with my nephew. Also the very appreciative staff handed out gift-bags as I exited, which included a free t-shirt. 

That’s right. I said mac ‘n cheese egg rolls, and they are unbelievably delicious. The noodles and crispy wrapper are a perfect combination. My biggest mistake was grossly underrating how many I could eat.

Above The Frey.

Improving the New York Knicks takes more than coaching. It takes time. Matches. Gasoline. 

Meanwhile, out here, the Lakers cranked out another championship last night. They’re not my team, so I wasn’t about to join in and celebrate/address seven months of quarantine frustration like the rest of LA. I was at Pilot, a poolside, rooftop bar overlooking the mayhem downtown. 

It was sirens and screaming and July 4th-style fireworks exploding right next to us and I was both jealous and judgmental. Congrats to the fans. Try not to punch a police horse.

Libations.

I found $20 in a parking lot and thought to myself, “What Would Jesus Do?” So I took it and turned it into wine. 

Well, beer. But at a new wine bar in Santa Monica called Esters. I highly recommend getting out of the house, grabbing someone you like and sitting outside for drinks and food while the weather is still decent. I sipped a beer called Relax Hazy IPA. My medicine.

In Which I Recommend A Movie I Have Not Yet Seen.

My friend’s son has to stay home for his first semester of college, so I’m going to puke in his shower and set off the fire alarm at 3 a.m. so he can have the true freshman year dorm experience. 

Shithouse, a movie about a freshman in college, debuts on Netflix next Friday. By the looks of the trailer, it’s right up my alley – I love a great coming of age story. On the one hand, there’s nothing like the thrill of going away to college, but it also comes with its challenges: trying to fit in, living with some strange idiots, risking getting your heart broken.

  

But then I read more about the movie. The star, Cooper Raiff, was a sophomore at Occidental College here in LA, and decided to stay at school one spring break and shoot a short film. It was rough around the edges but filmmaker Jay Duplass saw it and encouraged Cooper to turn it into a feature film. Cooper dropped out of school, made the film, and it won the Grand Jury Prize at South by Southwest this year. 

Action and horror films are awesome, but we need stories like this, too. (Both the plot and the making-of stories, I mean.)

I’ve Reached This Stage Of The Pandemic.

Happy Belated Trevor Shevin Day.

I’m an actor because my brothers got Nintendos one Chanukah and I got plaid pants. 

We all turned out alright. In fact, my younger brother is the top intervention specialist in New York. When the rich and famous need serious help, Trevor is their guy. He’s helped hundreds of people through the toughest moments in their lives, and for that he has now been appropriately recognized. New York State Senator Andrea Stewart-Cousins proclaimed October 2nd Trevor Shevin Day. 

Trevor was a little embarrassed by the attention, but I’m not. You deserve it, bro.

He’s Got Game.

If this virus gets any more toxic, I’ll probably end up dating it. 

Here’s a fast track to relationship issues: give her a bouquet of flowers you bought while driving. I’ve seen these vendors my entire life; Saturday was the first time I actually saw a dude making a purchase. 

Hope she also enjoys the dick pic, sir.

Should I Be Concerned?

If someone is jogging at 6 a.m. on a Sunday, it’s because he just killed someone, right? 

I’m no expert, other than I’ve killed two people. On TV. That said, yesterday I mentioned to my dry cleaner, Reza, that my Lifetime movie was airing again in two weeks, and he said, “You’re the killer, aren’t you.” 

I asked how he knew. “You look like a killer,” he said. I’m taking that as a compliment, though I did wonder if he had ever removed blood stains from one of my shirts. 

Either way, Her Secret Family Killer airs at 10 p.m. on October 12, and then four hours later at 2 a.m. And for all clothing and tailoring needs, Tiffany Cleaners is kickass.

Sweet W.

Forget social distancing. Give me a pandemic that lets me be emotionally distant. 

Last night, however, there was hugging, as the Yankees swept the Indians in the first round of the playoffs. I can’t so much as pump my fist without Ricky waking out of a deep sleep and leaping off the couch. Game on. Last night, as the Yankees came from behind twice to win it, there was open-mouth kissing.

Just putting this out to the universe: if the Yankees eventually go the World Series, the games will be in Arlington, TX, and I will absolutely be there. Sorry, Ricky. We'll be very distant for that.