Nothing to see here

Here we go again. I find myself staring at this blank screen, waiting for inspiration to strike. Or perhaps a gentle nudge from the universe that says, “Hey, try writing about this.” But no such luck. And here I am. Again. Writing about having nothing to write about.

After a couple thousand or so blogposts, I have to ask the question: have I officially emptied the well? Have I said everything I need to say? Have all the words been used up? Do I need to start communicating exclusively in interpretive dance? (Don’t tempt me—I will do it and it won’t be pretty).

Truth be told, the world continues to provide plenty of material. The problem is, none of it is particularly funny these days.

We’ve got Cadet Bone Spurs speedrunning the destruction of democracy. The Constitution? Holding on by a thread. Institutional norms? Shredded, torched, and fed to whatever lives in the basement at Mar-a-Lago.

Meanwhile, my attempts at humor feel like bringing a water pistol to a four-alarm fire.

So, here I am, once again writing about how I have nothing to write about. I’ve done it before (here), and I’ll do it again. (See? I’m already repeating myself.)

While I wait for either inspiration or full-blown existential despair to light a fire under me, allow me to direct you to some wordsmiths who do have something to say: Rich Siegel over at RoundSeventeen and Jeff Eaker at Kingdom of Failure. Both are far more talented, far funnier, and quite possibly better-looking than me.

Okay, I’m joking about that last one. And maybe one of the other two. After all, no one’s under oath here.

Is there really nothing left to say? Or, more importantly, how many more times can I get away with writing a blogpost about having nothing to write about.

Stay tuned. Hopefully it won’t be for nothing.

To President Volodymyr Zelenskyy,

The people of the United States owe you an apology. You’ve led your nation with courage, dignity, and unwavering resolve in the face of immense adversity. And yet, instead of the steadfast support and respect you deserve, you were subjected to humiliation, manipulation, and betrayal at the hands of an American president unworthy of his office.

Donald Trump does not represent the values of the American people. He does not embody our commitment to democracy, our dedication to justice, or our belief in the power of alliances.

Instead, he represents the worst of us: the corruption, ignorance, greed, cruelty, and cowardice we as a nation have struggled to overcome. His actions have not only disgraced our country but have also undermined those who stand on the front lines defending democracy—including you and the brave people of Ukraine.

His treatment of you, from his extortion attempt in 2019 to his most recent in front of Vladimir Putin was appalling. Instead of standing beside you as a true ally, he sought to use you as a political pawn, prioritizing his own interests over the security of your nation and principles of international law.

And now, he’s gone even further, publicly diminishing Ukraine’s struggle, parroting Kremlin propaganda, cutting off desperately needed aid and showing the world once again his loyalty lies not with the free world, but with its adversaries.

For this, we are deeply sorry. We are sorry for the disgraceful way you were treated. We are sorry America failed, in that moment, to be the ally you needed. We are sorry you were forced to navigate not only a brutal war, but also the reckless whims of a man who has no understanding of honor or sacrifice.

And we are sorry for those in our country who continue to empower him, despite the damage he has done and continues to do.

But please know this: millions of Americans stand with you. We see Ukraine’s fight as our fight. We respect your leadership, admire your resilience, and remain committed to supporting your nation’s struggle for freedom. The America that values its allies, defends democracy, seeks justice—that America is still here, and we will not let the monumental failures of one small, vile, ignorant man define us.

We pledge to continue standing with Ukraine. And we pledge to ensure our nation never again abandons its allies in their time of need. Slava Ukraine.

With deepest respect and regret, The American People Who Believe in Honor and Democracy.

Taco ‘bout taste

I’ve heard it said perfection is an illusion. And I subscribe to that belief, especially when it comes to relationships, parking spots and my ability to fold a fitted sheet. Well, apparently there’s one more thing it applies to. Finding the perfect taco in Los Angeles.

A fool’s errand? Maybe. But if there’s an impossible dream worth chasing, it’s one wrapped in a warm corn tortilla.

Here’s the thing: Los Angeles is a taco mecca. And its cool cousin Long Beach is no slouch either. The options are endless: street vendors, mom-and-pop shops, taco trucks with lines longer than the DMV.

Each taco has its own personality. Some spicy and unpredictable (like my high school girlfriend). Others rich and comforting (see previous joke). There are hard-shell and soft shell. Open and closed. Trying to choose a favorite is like trying to pick your favorite child, which, frankly is easier on some days than others.

I’ve tasted the smoky al pastor. I’ve savored shredded beef so tender it brought a tear to my eye, and a permanent stain to my shirt.

And the fish tacos? If loving them is wrong, I don’t want to be right.

But how can just one be THE taco? It feels wrong when they all bring something special to the table (see what I did there?).

In my search I realized something: every day in L.A. is Taco Tuesday. There’s no waiting for a specific day of the week—great tacos are available, at all hours, in all places. You can have a breakfast taco in the morning, a carnitas taco at lunch, and a late-night street taco after an evening of bad decisions.

And there lies the beauty of this City of Tacos. Just when you think you’ve found the one, another contender pops up, winking at you from the next food truck. Or calling your name from a modest taqueria tucked behind a laundromat.

I don’t want to spoil the end of the story for you, but I haven’t found the perfect taco. The search continues, and every bite is its own reward.

Viva la búsqueda. Long live the search.

Chat room

You know them. You’ve met them. You probably have one or more in your life right now.

The Never-Ending Talker. The person who operates under the principle silence is the enemy, and words must flow like a broken fire hydrant in July.

The good news is you never have to worry about holding up your end of the conversation. In fact, you don’t even have to participate. You can just nod, throw in the occasional “oh wow” or “that’s crazy” or “Can you believe it?” and they’ll take it as a heartfelt invitation to continue.

The bad news is they can’t take a hint. You can start backing away, inching toward the exit and they will follow. You can check your watch. Fake a phone call. Hail a taxi, hop in, roll up the window and drive off and without a doubt they’ll already be in the passenger seat, mid-sentence.

If you find yourself trapped in an endless monologue, here are some survival tactics:

1. The Mirror Technique – Repeat their last sentence back to them as a question. This creates a loop that momentarily stuns them.

2. The Strategic Yawn – Yawning is contagious. If they start yawning too, there’s a slight chance they’ll pause to wonder why they suddenly feel exhausted.

3. The Sudden Fake Emergency – “Oh no! I forgot I left the oven on in 2007! Gotta go!”

4. The Disappearing Act – If all else fails, just vanish. Learn the fine art of the Irish Goodbye—slipping away unnoticed while they’re still mid-sentence. Don't worry about offending them. People have been slowly backing away from them all their lives - they're used to it. They might not even realize you’re gone until they finish their story, which could take anywhere from 20 minutes to several lifetimes.

You have to admire their stamina. But at the same time, you have to be wishing there was an off switch. We all have chatty friends like this, and it doesn’t make them bad people.

I don’t know what your position on this is. Mine is next to the nearest exit.

Not bowled over

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, the Super Bowl wasn’t just a game. It was an annual event for those of us who couldn’t tell a touchdown from a turnover, but could debate for hours whether a talking baby or a chimpanzee in a suit made for a better ad. Super Bowl commercials were legendary, a showcase of daring, innovative creativity where brands threw millions at the screen and somehow made it work.

Now it’s like watching a billion-dollar trust fund kid start a DJ career—so much money, so little talent.

I remember the days when a Super Bowl ad had cultural staying power. The best ones lived rent-free in our minds for decades. They weren’t just commercials; they were events. Apple’s “1984,” the Budweiser frogs, Old Spice turning deodorant into performance art.

Fast forward to today, and we’re left with a parade of warmed-over celebrity cameos, desperate attempts at nostalgia and punchlines that land with all the grace of a buffalo on roller skates.

Comedy in Super Bowl commercials used to be sharp, fresh. Now brands think if they just jam enough random celebrities into a 30-second spot, hilarity will ensue. Instead, we get a confusing mess where the product is an afterthought, wedged between three forced catchphrases and an overpaid A-lister who’s clearly wondering if this is worth the humiliation.

Case in point: This year’s crop of commercials felt like an AI-generated script where the prompt was simply “funny?” with a shrug emoji. The formula is painfully predictable—add one washed-up 90s star, sprinkle in a nostalgia reference and season liberally with over-the-top CGI. Voila! You’ve just burned $7 million on airtime for something people will forget before halftime.

And yet, amidst the wasteland of uninspired content, Jeep’s commercial featuring Harrison Ford stuck with me. Here’s a guy who can sell anything by simply showing up and looking vaguely disinterested. But somehow, Jeep managed to turn that into gold, blending his authenticity with the product in a way that felt natural, honest and actually enjoyable.

There used to be a time when people pretended to watch the game just so they could see the commercials. But that era is dead. Now, it’s just a wasteland of corporate money pits where ambition goes to die.

I suppose there’s always hope for next year, but let’s be real: the golden age of Super Bowl commercials is over. The magic is gone, replaced by desperate marketing teams green-lighting anything that might go viral, regardless of quality.

Until then, we’ll have to settle for watching the actual game—which will definitely be more exciting than watching another forced celebrity endorsement do their impression of a Tesla—crash and burn.

Stars are people too

Wildfires are devastating. They consume more than homes. They also devour memories, history, and a sense of safety. This year, flames tore through Altadena, Malibu and the Palisades, leaving ashes where homes and lives once stood. Yet, instead of compassion, a bizarre and unjustified wave of callousness has reared its ugly head, with people dismissing the losses of celebrities and residents in these areas.

How often in the past week have you seen a post or heard someone say, “They can afford to rebuild” or “They can just move to their other house”? It’s a cavalier, ignorant, jealous, red-state, right-wing, California-hating dismissal that reveals a staggering, although sadly not surprising, lack of empathy and understanding.

Let’s be honest: there’s no faster way to show the world your heart is three sizes too small than by shrugging off someone else’s tragedy with, “Well, they’re rich.”

Not everyone who suffered a loss is rich. Sure, these communities, especially Malibu and the Palisades, are known for luxurious homes. But they’re also home to teachers, small business owners, retirees, and others who’ve built lives there. Some have lived in these neighborhoods for decades—long before they became synonymous with wealth. Losing a home is financially devastating for anyone.

And no, Karen, not everyone has a secret vault of gold coins to dive into when things go south.

Even for those who ar e wealthy, the idea their losses don’t matter is disturbingly cruel. Yes, a celebrity may have the means to rebuild, but wealth doesn’t erase the pain of losing irreplaceable items: photo albums, keepsakes from loved ones, artwork, and more. Money can’t replace that painting your kid made in first grade that held a place of honor on the fridge. Wealth doesn’t shield anyone from the trauma of displacement or the heartbreak of watching a cherished home—and all the memories it held—go up in flames.

To imply their suffering is any less valid because they’re in the public eye is to deny their humanity. And yours.

Many celebrities who’ve lost their homes are still stepping up to help others. They’re donating significant amounts to relief efforts, volunteering their time, and using their platforms to raise awareness and funds for victims. Their losses haven’t stopped them from giving back, which only underscores their humanity and generosity.

A loss is a loss. Home is more than just four walls and a roof. It’s the space where we build our lives, celebrate milestones, and find comfort. When people lose their homes to natural disasters, they’re not just losing a building; they’re losing memories and a piece of their identity. This is true whether you’re living paycheck to paycheck or have a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.We reduce celebrities to their wealth or fame, forgetting that they laugh, cry, and mourn just like the rest of us.

They’re just better lit while doing it.

This mentality often extends to others perceived as “better off” than us. It’s a dangerous way of thinking. Instead of coming together to support those in need, we’ve created a hierarchy of whose suffering is “worthy” of our compassion. Spoiler alert: this isn’t a competition. There are no prizes for being the most dismissive.

Next time you see news of someone’s home destroyed by fire—whether they’re a famous actor or your next-door neighbor—think about what it would mean to lose the place where you’ve built your life.

The last thing we need is for callousness to spread faster than the wildfires.

Germ of an idea

I recently got a front-row seat (literally) to the modern marvel that is the emergency room waiting area. Or, as I now lovingly call it, the “Germ Sauna.” What began as a trip to the ER for some minor-but-concerning health scare turned into an epic 18 ½ hour test of endurance, and my butt is still recovering.

Allow me to explain.

Let me set the stage: the waiting room was packed, buzzing with the sound of people coughing with the enthusiasm of someone trying to clear a lifetime of regrets. Coughs, sniffles, and the occasional wail from a child who clearly didn’t sign up for this. It was a microcosm of humanity at its most vulnerable. And yet, oddly, no masks required. Sure, you could wear one if you wanted, but the general vibe was more “free-range germs for all!” than “let’s contain this outbreak.”

It’s like the hospital figured, “Hey, they’re already sick. What’s a little influenza sprinkled on top?”

Then, the chairs. Imagine sitting on something that combines the worst aspects of a medieval rack with the ergonomics of a brick.

Every so often, a name would be called, and someone from this suffering crowd would shuffle toward the elusive back rooms. We’d all watch them go, a mix of envy and despair on our faces.

Finally, after 18 ½ hours (in case I didn’t mention it before), after what felt like an eternity, my name was called. I practically leapt out of my torture chair—though I needed a second to make sure my butt still worked. I was led to a bed (which was just a gurney, but after the chair it felt like a Temper-Pedic). The ER doctor came in, apologizing for the wait. “It’s frustrating for us too,” she said. “We’re doing the best we can.”

Still, amid the chaos and discomfort, one thing stood out: the staff. These overworked heroes were doing everything humanly possible to manage an impossible situation. Despite the crushing number of patients and a room full of people who had long since run out of patience, the nurses, receptionists, and doctors remained calm, professional, and compassionate. I watched them navigate angry outbursts, soothe frightened children, and handle a parade of bizarre injuries with the kind of grace that deserves a Netflix documentary.

I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure that by adding some beds, capacity, staff, and one or two more doctors they could probably shave a good six hours off the wait time.

In case you were worried, I’m fine now, thanks. Whatever health issue I had magically resolved itself somewhere between hours 14 and 16. At this point, I think my body just wanted to get out of there.

In the end, my ER adventure was more than just about surviving a health scare. It was a test of patience, endurance, and my ability to avoid catching pneumonia from three dozen people coughing in my general direction for hours on end.

Would I do it again? Let’s hope I don’t have to.

But if I do, I’m bringing my own chair. And hazmat suit.