So Close.

I don’t really get how fine art can be. I mean, maybe if I saw it in a bikini.

I need a museum more my speed, like the Academy Award Museum. I passed by it yesterday morning, and the construction is really coming along. (Sort of. It’s actually running very fashionably late, as it was originally set to open this May, but will now be opening early next year.)

The AAM will be comprised of two buildings. The orb will be called The Sphere, and feature a 1000-seat theater named after David Geffen. The main building, which was previously the May Company department store, will house artifacts like the tablets from The Ten Commandments.

See? So much better than a regular museum. I remember my sixth-grade class being taken on a field trip to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York, where we realized our favorite exhibit was “Elevator Buttons.”

Watch This.

The first 40 years of childhood are always the hardest.

Just ask comedian Gary Gulman. He’s tall and handsome. He played college football. He’s insanely funny. He has a good heart. (Lately, he’s been giving free standup advice in the form of tweets. He’s up to tip number 282.) He’s married to a sweet, beautiful woman. Yet he was massively depressed and suicidal.

Gary finally received the right treatment (including a three-week stay in a psych ward while he was administered electro-shock therapy – it saved his life), and decided to launch a new comedy tour called “The Great Depresh,” in which he was entirely open about his battle with depression. Not just open, but so funny – including a joke about how his hatred of essay writing probably saved him from committing suicide more than once, because it would’ve required him to compose a suicide note.

His tour culminated with an HBO special, which premiered over the weekend. Watch it. It’s sweet and informative and hilarious. I won’t spoil any more of it.

If you’re not familiar with Gary’s standup, here’s a clip from one of his previous specials:

Weekend High And Low.

I never realized how short a month is until I started paying rent.

And a month must fly by at the Avalon, a luxury new apartment building I visited over the weekend in Hollywood. Check out the lobby, completely wired for doing work or hosting a party, and very tastefully decorated to hike the rent up even more. (The neon reads “Without you there is no us.”)

Meanwhile, for the rest of us peasants, all-new jumbo, stuffed Cheez-it squares. THIS is why I listed Pizza Hut as my emergency contact.

Tragedy.

Tushar Atre went to the same high school as me. Then he went on to become a real one-percenter, owning his own tech company and marijuana business – both of which unfortunately put a target on your back.

Tuesday, several people broke into Tushar’s home, kidnapped him, drove off with him in his girlfriend’s car and killed him.

I posted the news on a Facebook group page for my hometown, and by all accounts from people who knew him, Tushar was a very good guy. Home invasion is the worst nightmare in the world, and I can’t imagine what the last moments of his life were like. If anyone deserves to rest in peace, it’s him.

Been A While, But Once Again: Out-Of-Context Thank-You Notes I’ve Recently Written To Casting Directors.

• Is it “sup” or “suh”? I want my grandma’s eulogy to be just right.

• I imagine a third zebra strolled casually while whistling and pretending to read a newspaper onto Noah’s ark.

• Excruciating cashier small talk. Brought to you by chip card readers.

• I like to think the automatic soap dispenser is just really happy to see me.

• Less than two weeks until Canadian Thanksgiving. Better start marinating the beaver.

• We men very much enjoy our all-in-one shampoo-conditioner-body wash-face soap-toothpaste-car wax.

I’ve Never Wanted Tonsillitis More.

30 Seconds Of September.

In September, a 127-year-old woman passed away, which we already know is a lie because the earth isn’t even 127 years old.

Here’s my September, one second per day: