Happy Other Holiday.

Vandalism should be allowed on any vehicle whose alarm has been going off for more than five minutes. 

Also, every October 30th. Mischief Night back in New York. It’s sort of the like The Purge, only it’s not yet sanctioned by the government. 

You know the holiday goes back centuries because it’s the only way to explain kids using the old-timey word “mischief.” We were true artisans when it came to rotten eggs, toilet paper and flaming bags of poop. And then we had the unmitigated gall the next night to hit up the houses we soiled for candy. Simpler times. 

To those of you in the old neighborhood: earn this.

Begrudging Congratulations.

If I could invent a time machine, I wouldn’t go back and kill Hitler. I’d be the first comedian to make the “Why don’t they make the whole plane out of the black box?” joke. 

Only instead of the black box – it should be League Baseball jersey t-shirts – shirseys, as they’re regrettably called. My Paul O’Neill Yankees version has been worn and washed every week for 27 years, and the numbers are just now starting to fade. 

When I was relatively new to LA, my Yankees came into town for a rare series with the Dodgers. My friends and I bought tickets and I wore my O’Neill shirt to the game, where I was pelted with sunflower seeds and verbal abuse for seven full innings by some dangerous-looking winners sitting behind us because I had the unmitigated gall to wear a visiting team’s shirt. In the eighth inning, I snapped and yelled at them. They denied doing anything. Pussies. The sunflower seeds continued. And then my friend Jeff, a calmer man than I, turned to them and said, “I know you paid a lot for these seats. You want me to get you kicked out?” They stopped. 

Since then, I have quietly yet intensely rooted against the Dodgers. (Though after they lost in the World Series a few years ago, I not so quietly called my niece, had her hand the phone to my nephew, a big Dodgers fan, and laughed at him like DeNiro in Cape Fear.) I also enacted a new rule: so much as one piece of anything hits me at a game, I’m getting the stadium cops involved. 

Two nights ago, the planets aligned for the Dodgers and they won the World Series. I was conflicted. The city lit up with some overdue celebrating, and while my nephew and I torment each other about our teams, I was happy for him. I’m glad he roots for his hometown guys. Seconds after the Dodgers clinched the series, I found the newly-posted online shop selling championship gear, forwarded it to my nephew, and within five minutes he purchased a hat and a t-shirt. A t-shirt which will still be going strong in 2047. 

I am older and wiser since the “incident,” and realize today I have lot of cool friends who are very good people and very good Dodger fans. I’m glad their team won. Sports mostly make you sad. The Dodgers couldn’t get it together for 32 years, but Tuesday night, they earned it and deserved it. Good job. 

An Excerpt.

When I call 911, I’m going to do a Christopher Walker impersonation to briefly amuse the jurors at my trial. 

But my skills will never measure up to those of Martin Short. While searching for something in his book, I Must Say, which I read last year and loved, I came across the following passage that begins with a film he shot with Nick Nolte: 

There was a scene in Three Fugitives in which Nick had to wear hospital scrubs, and that became his basic look, I think, for years thereafter. Circa 2005, more than fifteen years after we’d worked together, I was at the Toronto Film Festival, staying at the Four Seasons, when who should walk into the elevator but Nick Nolte – in hospital scrubs. Not having noticed me, he took his place at the front. I had, during our time on Three Fugitives, developed a dead-on impression of him. In my most ravaged, guttural Nolte voice, I croaked, “I hear Nick Nolte’s an asshole.”  

Nick didn’t know it was me, and in hindsight, he might very well have turned around and punched me in the face. Arguably, he should have. But he merely pivoted partway, not even bothering to look back, and said resignedly in his most ravaged, guttural Nolte voice, “I don’t disagree.”

Justified.

I watched a guy pull out of 7-Eleven with his coffee on top of his car. I could have warned him, but I’m out of stuff to watch.

It’s A Wrap. An Appreciation.

While shopping for clothing for my new headshots, I was brutally owned by a small child when I came out of the dressing room in a plaid shirt and she said, “Nice lumberjack costume.” 

Words hurt, lady. Luckily, it happened in one of my happy places: It’s a Wrap, a store in Burbank that carries wardrobe formerly used in TV shows and movies. 

The place has some size, loaded with racks of men’s and women’s clothing and shoes, very gently used. Within minutes of our arrival, the stylist who accompanied me found a dozen nice shirts for me to try on. All potential winners. No surprise – they were purchased by the most talented wardrobe people in the business. 

The tags are coded to let you know which production each item is from. This never stops being cool.

The stuff that’s too valuable for resale, like Sylvester Stallone’s shorts from Rocky III and Rocky IV, make the wall. 

I bought three shirts, a sweater, two jackets (including a sport coat that retails for $200) and two ties for a grand total of $68. I almost shit. (In my own pants – not theirs.)

Gone Shopping.

Hey, “greatest generation” – why is every thrift store filled with ceramic clowns? 

I’m going to a real thrift store tomorrow – a fancy one, if you can believe that – with a stylist to find clothes to wear in my new headshots. I’ll have more when I blog about it on Monday. Natilly clad, of course.

A Very 2020 Christmas To You.