Emotional Humility

Emotional humility is having to admit to people that you feel pretty meh about Star Wars.

Emotional humility is defriending someone on Facebook who you thought you would never see again only to have them confront you about it two years later in front of a group of people.

Emotional humility is saying goodbye to someone after hanging out and then realizing you both parked in the same direction.

Emotional humility is accidentally making eye contact with someone in the car next to you and doing your best to give them a heart eye emoji face to make the uncomfortable in a whimsical way.

Emotional humility is when sometimes you try to hard to be alternative, but ultimately you are still right handed.

Emotional humility is not being able to tell a workout song from a regular song.

Emotional humility is admitting that your keyboard is red not from blood, sweat, and tears, but from Hot Cheeto dust.

Emotional humility is not updating your blog in six months and admitting that was an oopsy. It is also emitting a small prayer than you are using the term emotional humility correctly.

2015: You Can’t Win Them All

A few highlights of my 2015🙂 :

  • My old boss told me I sounded “too straight-forward” in work emails, so I should try to include a smiley face and an “!” in each email. This is now amongst my worst habits.
  • I discovered those video blackjack machines in Las Vegas that are pretty demeaning to animated women,  but also pay well if you play them right. Verdict: Worth it, but I feel a little dirty.
  • I think I only read one book, and it was about makeup …
  • I am almost out of debt
  • I didn’t write enough, this sentence feels short.


Happy New Year, every body! Be weary of drunk drivers, they are terrifying.

Only Jerks like Supper Clubs

I always sit in Chuy’s section, granted he could spell it Chewy, but I’ve never asked. I ordered chili sides the first few times I went and got trapped in that being my usual order because there is something tangibly awkward when someone asks you “the usual?” and you say “no”

Then the bowling alley diner became the opposite of awkward and I would go at least once a week with a book or friend and drink way too much caffeine at 6pm because I was just out of college and invincible. I was also in a new neighborhood where I didn’t know many people and on my first bout with being relatively self-sufficient (i.e. poor). I could get a good cooked meal for $10 with tax and tip and sit next to a row of old men and a strange and talkative younger doctor at the counter, who were friendly faces and largely the same faces (night after night, not same faces as each other). Oh, also, and a lot of overweight friendly cops sitting with sides of ranch dressing.

I feel like this whole thing would be amiss without mentioning the one-armed long-haired chain-smoking league bowler I would pass on the way in.

As someone who largely prefers books to conversations with strangers, I kept to myself and my waiter friends and I loved it. Over time I got busier with comedy, hanging out with my cat and losing my college 20, so my visits had largely slowed down. Last week I drove by and there were 100 people protesting the eviction and as a Berkeley grad I was hoping for some important societal change. Turns out the local AMF is effectively evicting them at the end of the month and replacing it with a supper club that I hope no one in my neighborhood ever gives his or her patronage.

Phone Phoney

There is something very jarring about receiving a phone call from an unknown number, extra terrifying if it just says “Out of Area” because you don’t even get a zip code to hypothesize about. It’s like a knock on your door from a burly dude wearing a mask , except that you’re armed with an “end call” button instead of a hair straightener heated up to 470 degrees.

I have been a lifetime phone phobic and also a phoneyphobic, but that’s not a tale for the now. I guess I like to have face-to-face conversations with people.

If you are a “typical” American, I imagine most calls from new-2-you phone numbers are from the dry cleaner, the credit card company or telemarketers. As an actor who is a believer in buying hand wash OK clothes, my calls are a bit different. It could be a call saying I booked something, that a CD called my agent to say that I suck (hope this never happens) or it could be my vet saying my cat’s check-up was great. Actors are people with cats, too.

An unknown number can be a game-changer, and that’s a little bit terrifying, but probably not as terrifying as my home defense system. Note to self: get a baseball bat.

Sometimes You’re the Douchebag

Sometimes You're the Douchebag

Happy Holidays from Venice!

Two weeks ago there was a street festival in Venice sponsored by GQ on one of our main drags that GQ magazine dubbed “the coolest block in America.”

I don’t consider myself more judgmental than the American norm, but I just needed to see all the coiffed hair, smell cologne to help my figure out what France smells like and gawk at shoes that cost way more than my Christmas shopping budget.

Well, we went, and everyone was nice and we had a ton of fun. So maybe I am a douchebro for being judgmental? If I judge myself for being a douchebro for being judgmental, does it cancel out?

Anyways, my December resolution is to be less judgmental. But being “observational” is totally OK. I also reserve the right to judge evil people because, not cool.

Still not sure what France smells like. Bread?

Comedy Devil

There is one thing about comedy that makes my skin itch. Neutrality. Like khaki pants and dry turkey sandwiches, I just gotta ask why.

This could be my Berkeley brainwash, but I think the mass rewards of formula and structure lead to a lot of mass boring (i.e. almost every buddy cop comedy, except for the one with Jimmy Fallon and Queen Latifah because what). I would say that all the people who have had the largest impact on me as a writer and performer are very unapologetic about the lens in which they view the world. I find that so refreshing, inspiring and captivating. Hubert Selby Jr., Lucille Ball, a scientologist wanting to give me a stress test. All fascinating. May we never settle!