Birthday Boy.

Pardon me while I postpone my Vegas recap until tomorrow, but we have a momentous occasion around here: Petey’s birthday.

He really deserves a celebration, because while I was losing my voice in Vegas, he was in lockup all weekend.

Pete’s turning the big 11, and though he hasn’t lost a step, I’m fully aware he’s a big dog, and there aren’t going to be many more birthdays for him. So it's time to make the most of it with our traditional visit to PetSmart to allow the old man to pick out his birthday present.

This year's finalists: frog with a squeaker as loud as a Mack truck's horn vs. a radial tire.

Winner: the frog. Sorry, neighbors.

The First 12 Hours.

Seeing Cher, Barry Manilow and Celine Dion billboards the second I landed made me question my masculinity so much that the second I hit the hotel, I put two bills on my Terps to upset Miami today… When did air travel get so ghetto? I've been more comfortable on a bus…Probably didn’t help that my friend Rob, who flew out with me, got us into the US Airways club at the airport. It was so hoity-toity, I entered a Democrat and left a Republican… Lot of craps played last night, but today it’s time for some real gambling: the seafood buffet… Doesn't matter if you're at the beginning of a long day or the end of a long night – seeing 5:45 a.m. on the clock is never good news.

By The Time You Read This, I’ll Already Be Ruphied.

It’s my friend Chris’ birthday, and the boys and I are all going to Vegas for the weekend to celebrate. Meeting us there will be a few of Chris’ high-rolling, felonious friends from Florida. I'm going to die on this trip.

I try to check in here during bouts of consciousness.

It’s Over, Johnny.

Last May, I got herbs and vegetables to plant in the back yard. I planted corn as well, so I could better understand the music of John Mellencamp.

Meanwhile, I’m not exactly sure what possessed my neighbors across the street to stick their favorite, local candidate’s placard in my front yard, but they’ve apparently got just humungous balls.

I don’t know a thing about John Stammreich – except that his last name sounds like a concentration camp where several of my relatives would have been gassed – but he was now going to have to lose, because my idiot neighbors put me in an awkward position.

I didn’t want to get into a feud with them, but I think any political swag is just a bull’s-eye on my house for any crazy person, and it had to go. What to do?

I figured I’d sleep on it. And then the next morning I tore the thing to shreds.

Here’s the best part: John Stammreich lost Tuesday night – to a dead woman. Jenny Oropeza, his opponent, died from an abdominal blood clot last week, and she still kicked his ass.

Well-run campaign, dude.

People Who Shoot In Glass Lobbies.

I had a meeting yesterday at LA Center Studios. (It went well. Thanks for asking.)

Actually, it went mostly well until I came face-to-face with my sworn enemy: the lobby window.

You see, several scenes from the movie I wrote and starred in were shot at LA Center, and while rolling one morning, one of our lights was too close to one of the big windows. The intense heat caused it to essentially explode.

When I found out how much it would cost us to replace it, I wanted to take a piece of the broken glass and slit my wrist with it. And then I wanted to do it again yesterday when I saw the shiny, new replacement. (See above, middle.)

Compound that with the fact that the window is now getting more screen time than me these days, on “Mad Men,” which shoots at the studio, and I considered going Charlie Sheen hotel-room style on it.

Consider yourself warned, bitch.

Dust It, And Run It Down To The Boys In The Lab.

At the end of a long July 4th weekend a couple of summers ago, my friend Jeff and I were hanging in a bar by the beach, when Jeff decided to get a beer. I don’t drink, and as I stood waiting for him in the middle of the place, Kenny Rogers’ “The Gambler” began blaring, and all the jerkoffs around me started singing and gesturing boisterously to the lyrics. Jeff returned, without a beer, and said, “Let’s get out of here.” When I asked him why, he said, “Because you look like you’re about to kill someone.”

I don’t suffer drunks well. And Jeff is a very good friend.

Cut to late Friday night. As I was asleep in bed, Petey came into my room and woke me. I sat up, saw someone was trying to enter the front door of my apartment, and jumped out of bed. The guy was yanking on the doorknob and pounding on the door trying to get in, and I yelled at him to back off. He responded with option B: trying to pull off a screen and enter through one of my windows. I called the police.

I caught a glimpse of the guy stumbling off. He was a blackout-drunk dressed in a forest-ranger costume, and spilling food he had picked up from the Mexican joint around the corner.

The cops showed up quickly, but missed him. They were really cool and searched the entire neighborhood, but couldn’t find him.

I’ve blogged about Halloween in the past (Jeff, by the way, called me a grumpy, old man for writing that; Jeff is a very bad friend) and here it was, a fitting incident on the Official Weekend of Flaming Assholes Everywhere.

On the other hand, at least the son of a bitch was kind enough to leave me a Halloween treat:

Taking My Niece And Nephew Trick-Or-Treating: A Blackberry® Photo Gallery.

These folks must have shelled out serious bucks to have Larry King come sit on their front porch.

Borrow my nephew’s diaper, please? This guy was walking around the neighborhood revving a real chainsaw.

Decorating this house must have taken longer than a Ken Burns documentary about decorating this house.

Moving up in the world: that’s Petey and Los Angeles Laker Luke Walton’s bulldog exchanging pleasantries.

Key to a happy Halloween: wait for the kids to fall asleep and then go through their candy.