Moved.

There’s nothing like a visit to an impoverished nation to reinforce just how white you are. Like the ghost of Tilda Swinton white.

I blogged in the Philippines about visiting Virlanie, the orphanage to which my friends Bru and Aina decided to donate all of their wedding money. It was an entirely selfless act, only amplified by them bringing lunch and toys to the kids when they presented them the check. I tagged along.

Virlanie takes in kids that have been physically and sexually abused and/or abandoned, and does its best to provide them with some sort of normalcy. The boys and girls were so sweet, each greeting us by taking the backs of our hands and holding them to their foreheads – a Filipino show of respect to elders called “mano.” And they wanted to be picked up and they wanted to know our names and all I could think was that these kids weren’t all that far removed from their abuse. And I just wanted them to know that not all grownups are monsters.

That day has resonated with me more than any part of the trip, and last week, Aina’s mother passed along the above photo of me with a little girl that I think really captured how I felt.

I find myself now looking at my niece and nephew differently. They’re so damn spoiled. I know it’s not their doing, but it sure would be nice for them to see the bullet they dodged some time.

The More Qualified Candidate Lost Last Night.

But we’ll get ‘em in 2016, Rosie.

Get Your Butt To LA, Part 47: This Way, Please.

I truly hope when you arrive here, you’ll begin working immediately, but it often doesn’t work that way. Things take time. “Rome” by the B-52s wasn’t written in a day.

There’s a common notion that it takes ten years until you start enjoying consistent success. That sounds lengthy, but it can be a good thing. It separates the wheat from the chaff, chasing off the wannabes. And after a decade, your skills will be off the charts. In year one, a big audition can be frightening. But like killing hookers, it gets easier each time.

The tricky part of delayed gratification is finding signs along the way that you’re headed down the right path. My mentor, acting teacher Stuart Robinson, likes to say that an acting career can be like being invited to an amazing wedding, only you’re given vague directions to get to it. You know have to exit off the highway at Third Street to find the church, but you don’t know whether you need to go east or west. You choose east, and start driving and driving and don’t see a church until you finally make a u-turn and try the other direction. Meanwhile, you were only a half-mile before the destination, only you didn’t know it.

When you do get a sign, it’s really nice. There are the obvious ones, like booking a role, but others can be almost as special. Last week, I attended what’s called a “talent blast,” in which I performed a scene for eight casting directors all at once. The casting directors took notes, which were later emailed to me. Here are the comments I received:

“Great timing really enjoyed it… really funny, good timing… enjoyed your environment well… great straight man… really listened and reacted.. good pacing, great job very well done...”

 It’s nice to find out the career you’ve chosen is not only something you love but something that’s right. You’ll find out the same. God will give you signs. He’ll also occasionally toss a water balloon at you, but you’ll hang in there because there’s nothing else worth doing, and nothing nearly as fun.

Bottom line: I like to think of all my little failures as part of a larger victory. Come out here and win.

It’s Beginning To Look A Lot Like… Hey, I Know That Dude.

There was nothing quite like the smell of Grandma’s house at Christmas. That’s when we found her dead on the toilet.

Actually, as Jews we were denied Christmas, but our neighbors invited us over out of pity to help decorate their tree every year, and I’ve loved the holiday ever since.

And over the weekend, the holiday campaign I shot for PetSmart began running. The first piece was a big poster in the front window of me capturing a moment with the family. (It was a big Escher painting-esque as I snapped of pic of me from behind me snapping a pic.)

There will be several more ads in the next six weeks that’ll be in-store, on PetSmart’s website and in circulars sent to your home and in Sunday papers – many of them featuring me more prominently, such as my fake wife and I sharing a moment with a cat, and me as the dad of the family playing Santa. By the way, I fully believe having to wear a Santa suit in July in front of a roaring fire was me literally roasting in Hell for posing ironically with PetSmart Santas twice. (Both here, and here.)

So drop by and check me out. And if you really must bring a Sharpie and tag my face, I only ask you keep it tasteful: mustaches and goatees, as opposed to penises on my mouth. Thanks.

Slop Du Jour.

The key to happiness is to surround yourself with hilarious people, so a shout-out to my friend Jeff, who labeled a coworker’s vomitous lunch appropriately.

Take Your Time.

I’m living my life, and I love it. I’ve got my career, and I’ve got my puppy, and I keep getting my neighbor’s Sports Illustrated.

The simple things.

Yet honestly, if I lost my home I’d be devastated. And I’d be inconsolable if something happened to my mom, who still lives in the house I grew up in in New York. (She’s fine, by the way. Only lost cable and Internet and mail. Yes, my mom uses the mail.)

As much as I love California, I was born and raised in New York, and have a strong connection with everyone there. It’s both surreal and heartbreaking to see a hurricane destroy this part of the country, and as tough and proud as my fellow New Yorkers can be, they have every right to take their time to get through this.

We don’t need to reimagine every disaster as a tale of heroism. We don’t need to turn every funeral into a celebration. A divorce is not a birthday party or a high-school reunion or a three-day spa getaway. Just as there’s a time to meditate, a time to live your best life, a time to be “fierce,” there’s also a time to cry hard, a time to be overwhelmed and a time to eat big doughnuts in bed. We all have a right to feel sorry for ourselves, and a right to even feel bad about that, too. So for God’s sake, let’s stop rushing to get to the good part.

You’ll pull through, New York. When you’re ready.

Trick Or Tirade.

This being an entertainment town, Halloween is off the charts out of control. I love seeing a good costume, but I’m not about to join in on one of the five holidays that give people permission to behave like assholes. You can’t throw a punch without hitting someone who’ll ask you want you’re going to be for Halloween. A grown-ass man – that’s what.

Eat me, haters.

But I do love taking the niece and nephew trick or treating, then swiping all the top shelf candy they collect. Great holiday after all. And now, happy first day of Christmas.