That’s An Order.

If your last name is Rice and you don't name your kid Fried, you are dead to me.

I ordered the extra fancy variety the other night: salt cod fried rice, at Suburbia. They make it with shrimp, scallops, and sweet-and-sour pork-crab chili sauce. I tore off my breakaway pants as I approached that dish.

The finisher: death by chocolate. So this weekend, if you find yourself in the South Redondo area, east of Burnout Beach by Avenida del Norte, don’t be a bigshot – get a table.

Game So On.

My brothers and I played this game in which we were bowling balls, and the pins were everything my parents owned.

I was reminded of this last night, when my nephew’s Little League team had their end-of-the-season party, hosted by my big brother, the team’s head coach.

The cool thing: Brandon Bass of the LA Clippers was there. (His son plays on my nephew’s team.) The risky thing: being around a dozen pent-up nine-year-olds. (They were eliminated one game shy of the finals.)

It was on. Cornhole bags whipped so hard, you could see dust flying out of them as they pegged each guy in the chest. Wooden golf clubs became weaponized. (One kid hit his four-year-old sister in the head on his back-swing.)

But for all their recklessness, I will honestly miss these idiots. I’ll miss bribing them with gum to get on base. Or offering cash to any player who actually knew the game’s score. Or insisting to all of them I’d bet on the other team.

On the bright side, out here in California, baseball is a year-round sport, so hopefully a summer league will be kicking in soon, and we’ll get to do it all over again. Only this time we’ll require batting helmets at the party.

Espresso 1, God 0.

A kitten is probably the most playful creature on the planet. But it’s less cute when you realize it’s all just bird-murder practice.

Or eluding murder. While shooting my friend Mary’s web series in Venice the other day, her cat, Espresso, wandered onto the set. He was a former stray who used to show up every time Mary made espresso, and when Mary and her husband finally decided to take him in, they brought him to the vet for a checkup. The vet found a bullet in him.

Whoever shot that cat is a really bad dude who needs to get a life. Luckily, Espresso has eight more.

On Camera. Un-American.

Sometimes I make myself feel important by thinking in a British accent.

But then I had the chance to actually use that accent the other day, for a role in my friend Mary’s web series. I basically did Hugh Grant minus the stammer, and seemed to pull it off. The director was very impressed.

By the way – idea for a detective film: Hugh Grant IS Mike Stammer.

Set your DVRs.

He shouldn’t have died so young, but he also shouldn’t have used his leaf blower at 7:30 am on a Sunday. (I’m writing my neighbor’s obituary.)

Tonight, HBO airs a new documentary that touches on that topic: If You’re Not in the Obit, Eat Breakfast. The title is based on a joke by Carl Reiner, one of several celebrities interviewed in this doc. All of them, including Stan Lee, Mel Brooks and Carl Reiner, are going strong after the age of 90.

Also featured: my mom’s 99-year-old yoga teacher, Tao Porchon-Lynch, who is the living embodiment of Forrest Gump. Tao marched with Gandhi, starred opposite Elizabeth Taylor in the film The Last Time I Saw Paris, and, in her most daunting endeavor, attended Thanksgiving at our home. You haven’t lived until Paul and Sheila Shevin bicker in front of company.

It looks really good. 8 p.m. tonight.

Your Uber Is Here.

31 Seconds Of May.

My month of May involved a birthday girl, a jazz band and Derek Jeter. These characters return in the third act, so be ready.

Here it is, one second per day: