A Cat in a Dog’s world.

My adorable charge.

Recently I’ve noticed myself classifying people into either dogs or cats. I don’t mean “dog people” or “cat people” — it’s not about preference, it’s disposition. For instance: I am clearly a cat. Robert Downey Jr — cat. Will Ferrell — dog. That lady comic that Oprah loves but we all hate — dog. What’s her name? Ali something? Whatever. You get what I’m saying. Cats are clever and reserved, dogs are energetic and optimistic. I haven’t worked the idea out into a whole book yet (but I should right? Chicks would buy that junk.) So far it’s mostly instinct and judgmental tendencies (such a cat!)

It’s not just people, either — it’s cities. New York is a cat, LA is a dog. New York sits inside looking out the window and down at the world, LA runs up to strangers and sticks it’s face in their crotch. New York sleeps all day and stays up all night, LA is really bummed when it doesn’t get to play frisbee bright and early. People tend to think New York is so cold and standoffish, and they think LA is just stupid.

Or maybe it just feels this way to me since I left my cat in New York and came to LA to dogsit for my first few weeks of transitioning out here. I have been spending more time with this dog than with humans. She’s a good time, and pretty adorable and brilliant as far as dogs go. I mean, she doesn’t know dick about math, but in 4 days I have taught her to dance on command (and that if she steals my underwear I will chase her, which she enjoys.) It’s relative, I guess.

We also spend a lot of time with other dogs, many of whom are hilarious. I met a poodle at the dogpark that screams like a human child if someone tries to take her ball. That was a good time. There was also an old deaf basset hound who hates balls and other dogs, but loves being chased by humans. She was pretty pushy with me, which was ridiculous. I mean, I’m not trying to brag, but if there was ever a dog I could easily catch on foot, it’s an old deaf basset hound.

The people here love dogs, too. At a party the other day I was talking to a man who seemed vaguely disappointed with me and decidely distracted, until I mentioned that I was dogsitting. He lit up! It was like I took my boobs out — suddenly we could have a real conversation. In fact, I’d say 70% of the conversations I have had or sneakily overheard (such a cat!) in the past week have been about dogs.

Maybe the alternative topics are too grim: “So how are you?” “Me? Well, I’m 40 and still doing PA work on porn shoots so I can pay off my jeep. Kind of want to tear my skin off, so I try to stay high all the time. Did you know that chicks aren’t really into jeeps anymore?”

Yeesh, right? So let’s go with: “So how’s your dog?” “Jesse? Great! I taught him to fetch and got him a t-shirt that says ‘Bad To The Bone’. Man he loves my jeep!”

Much better.

ALI WENTWORTH! That’s it! Ugh, we all hate her. Meow.


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Thai Cobb Salad.

*I realize that this post will be interesting and intelligible to only a small number of people, but I’ve got a real bee in my bonnet here. Sorry, everyone else.*

If you’re going to put a Thai Cobb Salad on the menu of your restaurant, please describe it with one of the following phrases:

  • The Georgia Peach” of salads.
  • Created or equaled more major league records than any other salad.
  • This salad might be horribly racist and violent, but its definitely tasty!
  • Still holds the records for highest career batting average and most crispy noodle bits.
  • Watch out! This salad punches minorities in the face with an unbridled rage that might easily turn homicidal.
  • This salad’s father never got to see it play, since it was murdered by it’s mother — so it’s got something to prove to YOU. Yum!

If you dont — or WORSE, if you come to take my order and I say “Haha, I guess I gotta get the Thai Cobb Salad — it’s in the hall of fame, right?” and you look at me like I just said “Meow meow meow Cookiepuss!!” Well, then fuck you. You’re an idiot. I mean, come on!


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Welcome to Hollywood! What’s your dream?

I am presently in Hollywood, watching TV with a small dog sleeping on my butt. I got here at midnight on Wednesday night. Or Tuesday morning if you want to be all my mother about it. I live here now, according to me (but don’t ask the post office — they have their own ideas.) I have spent the last 3 days vacillating wildly between unfounded optimism and throat-clutching dread. I have practically chewed my lips off with worry. How am I going to find and apartment? Buy a car? Get a job? Live a life?

Dan and his dog waited up for me to get home from the airport my first night. The next night Emily put me up on her stand-up show, where Jocelyn pep-talked me and helped me with a bit I’ve been working on. Friday, Baron dragged me out of bed to breakfast and then Greg spent 2 hours walking around Los Feliz looking for apartments with me. Thomas sent me apartment listings and talked me through leasing a car. Dave acted as designated-dad for some real estate tire kicking. I’m not going to fall.

I’ve got no idea what I’m going to do here, but for now I’m feeling really ok about it — happy to just be in Hollywood, watching TV with a small dog sleeping on my butt.

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Desert Island Picks

Okay! You’re stranded on a desert island, what top picks do you bring with you?

Book: What!? How did I get on an island? What happened to me??

Album: ALBUM? Fuck you. Is there a stereo on this island? Can it be converted to broadcast? Who am I kidding. I wouldn’t know how to do that if I tried. WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON???

Magazine: Jesus, I don’t know, whatever is biggest. It’s going to get dark eventually and I’ll need to burn something to stay warm…and keep the animals away. Oh Christ I am going to die.

Kitchen Appliance: KITCHEN APPLIANCE??? Isn’t that defined by being in a KITCHEN? Fuck, fine. Ok, an ax. You know, a kitchen ax. GO WITH ME HERE, I AM TRYING TO SURVIVE.

Movie: Do you mean DVD?  I guess Dirty Dancing, I don’t think I’d get sick of that.… WHY AM I ANSWERING THIS?? Get me off this fucking island!

TV Show: That — that doesn’t make any sense. Again, do you mean DVDs? What am I watching this stuff on? WHO ARE YOU?? WHY ARE YOU ASKING ME QUESTIONS INSTEAD OF HELPING ME???

Cupcake: Okay. I get it. This is some kind of fucked up Saw thing. You are trying to break me.

Make-Up: WHATEVER I CAN DRINK. FUCK YOU, YOU MONSTER.


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Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes…and a g-g-g-g-ghost!

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I am in LA. Because I am moving to LA. Yikes! Right guys?? YIKES. I am going to have to start working out more so I can get in stripper shape and fit in here. Because seriously, about 80% of the women here look like strippers. You know, like the Kardashians? That is a change from New York where 80% of the women look like Zoe Deschanel.

Also, I am on the Huffington post. (WHAT? How can I be in two places at once?? Magic.) They featured Boo!, a short Halloweeny film I did with Michael Goldberg. If you like ghosts, poop, or raisins this thing is for you!

Come see me liiiive in LAAAA:

Diamond Lion (musical improvz with Thomas Middleditch & Nicole Parker)
Sunday, October 24th at 6:30
UCB LA — 5919 Franklin Ave, Hollywood, CA

What’s Up Tiger Lily (stand up comedieeez)
Monday, October 25th at 8pm
Sunset Bar and Grill
6122 Sunset at Gower in Gower Gulch

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Getting Over It

A lot of times, people try to look especially good when they are going to see an ex. Sort of to say “look at what you’re missing!” I don’t get that — why give an ex the smug satisfaction of thinking ‚“Yeah, she’s hot — and I totally hit that! High five, self!”?

So, I prefer to look as shitty as possible when I know I am going to see an ex. Sort of to say “Yep, you stuck it in this trashbag. Still proud of yourself?” Then, if possible, I eat noodles in front of them.

No one gets the better of me!

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