A Public Apology.

What else did Petey get for Christmas? A urinary tract infection. Thanks, kennel.

I’m no expert, but I sensed something might wrong when he pissed blood all over my couch. While his red on the green couch was downright festive, I figured I oughta race him down to the vet, where he was taken into the back to for a catheter pee sample.

When the vet tech came walking back out, above is what she looked like. It seems Petey was pretty generous with his gift to her.

I told her I was sorry, but had to ask if any of the pee actually made it into the cup – she said yes – and if she had a change of scrubs – she said no. Then I added insult to injury by seeing if she’d let me take a pic. She did. She’s a sport.

A few days of antibiotics later, and Pete is back to normal. Ah, parenthood.

Six Hundy.

I continue my tradition of saluting each milestone with my five favorite entries from the last one hundred:

I Rate The Mulberry Street Pizza Autographs. Encino, CA. If you thought this place could do wonders with dough, cheese and sauce, check out what celebs can do with a Sharpie marker and a filthy wall. Mangiare here.

Desperation. The World’s Worst Perfume. If you feel like smacking some sense into this chick, you know where to find her. Get your disgust on here.

My Favorite Divorce. Now that Tiger Woods has gone kablooie, I may reclassify this as my favorite west-coast kerfuffle. Take me out to the bloodbath here.

What I Won’t Be Doing This Weekend. Finally, the silver lining of agoraphobia. Get a bigger boat and venture here.

Festivus, Part XXI. Thanks to “Lockup” on MSNBC, I’ve since learned that all you need to make prison wine is raisins, Kool-Aid and a toilet. Bottoms up here.

We Now Return You To Our Regularly-Scheduled Namedropping.

It’s been so tremendous hanging out with the famous folks that I have no idea what I’m going to do when I have to return to the peasants. Find a happy place, man.

And I strode into one hell of a showbiz scene when I recorded Hayden Panettiere, mostly due to the circumstances: a cover photo shoot of Hayden for Self magazine. Featuring an army of personal hair and makeup people; endless racks of Daisy Duke shorts; tables filled with expensive jewelry; a classic, orange Jeep inside the studio being given one last coat of wax by a hot, female set designer; and, greatest of all – a fully-loaded omelet station.

In a couple months, I’ll have to ask Hayden what it’s like to pick up a copy of a magazine called Self and actually see yourself on the cover. I assume the logical next step is to go Tom-Cruise-couch on Oprah.

2009 Deaths That Sucked.

Ricardo Montalban. In 1951, Ricardo was trampled by a horse while shooting a film, and concealed a considerable limp for the rest of his career. He was definitely mas macho.

Ron Silver. 82 TV shows and movies are impressive. But a Jew that can order in fluent Chinese is just outstanding.

Natasha Richardson. She did a voiceover a few years ago for a project I had written. Very classy and sweet.

Bea Arthur. What I wouldn’t give to star in one hit sitcom, and Bea had two. I kinda loathe her for that.

Dom Deluise. Best work: getting smacked around by Burt Reynolds during credit-rolling outtakes.

David Carradine. A legacy of kicking kung fu ass erased by a noose and a dress.

Farrah Fawcett. Blogged about her.

Michael Jackson. He was such a cool teenager – they should’ve buried him in the scarecrow costume from The Wiz.

Karl Malden. He was 28 when he was given his first role in a film. He was 88 when he guest-starred on “The West Wing.” Stud.

Walter Cronkite. Trusted, shmusted – he was one of the few white guys that could really pull off a mustache.

John Hughes. Think about filmmakers in the 80s, and he’s the first guy that comes to mind. I’d kill for that legacy. (Not kill John Hughes, necessarily, just kill in general.)

Patrick Swayze. Blogged about him as well.

Larry Gelbart. The guy turned MASH the movie into a hilarious TV show. I’m thinking about doing the same with Precious.

Festivus, Part XL.

The longer I live in L.A. – and love L.A. – the weirder it feels to go back to New York. But it’s weird in a good way, like going to the gym drunk.

I suppose New York ain’t tired of having me either, because The Big Apple Film Festival is the 40th fest to accept my film, The Beneficiary. And what better place to celebrate the big four-oh?

You know, if I’ve learned anything from my Sims family, it’s that you gotta be proud of your roots. And even though L.A. has been very good to me, my ex isn’t half bad either. It taught me about different cultures – like where you could buy illegal fireworks in Chinatown. And with my 9-7 football team playoff-bound, I learned there’s no need to ever try.

You came on, and came through, New York, NY.

I'll Be Damned.

Yes, I reference Petey a lot. But like Brokeback Mountain, I just can’t quit him.

When I was in New York, my friend Delia very sweetly gave me a gift to bring back to Petey: a mini version of him that barks when squeezed.

I’ve captured how Petey feels about stuffed toys – which is why I often remind him why we can’t have anything nice in this house. But lo and behold, after a couple of days, Pete’s mini-me is still in one piece.

All I can say is, kickass job on the gift, D. I’m shocked.

A Resolution.

2009 was a tough year for many. I personally gave my gun to my therapist – you know, in case I get the “gloomies” again.

But all of that’s going to change in 2010, when I fulfill my one and only New Year’s resolution: buy Jerry Seinfeld’s house.

They say you can’t buy happiness, and I say to “they” that you sure can buy a big, charming place with an Olympic-size pool, a guest cottage that keeps annoying relatives a safe distance away, and, best of all, your very own baseball field in the back yard. I just gotta scrape together 25 mil and it’s mine.

Happy New Year. To me.