Breaking the code

Hard as it is to believe, there are actually many skills and talents I simply don’t have, or have been unable to master.

I can’t juggle.

I dance like everyone’s looking.

My artistic abilities are limited to drawing crooked straight lines.

I play the guitar badly, but at least it’s only three chords.

And when I sing, the dogs howl (in pain) at the moon.

But for all those things I can’t do, I can do one thing better than just about anyone you know: load a dishwasher.

In what can only be described as a freakishly Rain Man-esque talent, I can pack more into a dishwasher than you or my family would think possible. When someone else tries their dishpan hands at it, there’s usually still a pile of dirty dishes left in our fabulous, deep farmer sink we installed during the year of the remodel. I think because the sink is so deep, people who shall not be named feel it’s okay to leave a lot of dishes in there because at a casual glance, they’re out of view.

Anyway, then I have to go to the kitchen, rearrange the dishes in the dishwasher and fill up all that newfound space with the dishes in the sink.

The other skill I have is I know when dishes in the washer are dirty and when they’re clean. Apparently other members of my household do not possess the laser focus and McGyver-like resourcefulness that would let them suss that out.

After all, it would involve opening the dishwasher door and looking in. What are we, detectives?

So my son, in between his Hollywood moving and shaking, and wheelin’ and dealin’, came up with a code. It involves a magnet, with a design by Mike Mitchell (also a Mondo artist), that used to be on the trunk lid of his car before he sold it to Carmax.

The hand magnet takes its place of honor along with my Springsteen On Broadway magnet, and my wife's "I am Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die." magnet.

The code is elegant in its simplicity: thumbs up for clean dishes, thumbs down for dirty dishes. And so far it's working like a charm.

The problem still remains that, for some reason, because I have this gift everyone expects me to do my precision loading of the dishwasher every night—even if I didn't participate in any way in dirtying the dishes. So I've developed a simple, easy to understand code of my own to let them know when I will and won't be their nightly clean up crew.

All I need to use it is a magnet with a different finger.

Here's the scoop

If you know anything about me, and if you don’t by now then maybe our season is just over, you know I own two fabulous dogs.

Ace is our German Shepherd rescue. We think he was two-years old when we got him, and he had the unenviable job of following our first German Shepherd Max, the world’s greatest dog (who you can read about in the stunning book of dog stories Gone Dogs, the perfect gift for that special dog-loving someone). However Ace has risen to the occasion swimmingly. He is an awesome guy with a completely unhealthy attachment to my wife. Look at her the wrong way. Go on, I dare ya.

Then there’s Lucy. We like to refer to her as an American Sock terrier. My daughter’s friend’s dog had puppies, and Lucy was one of them. She just came home with my wife and daughter one day. I didn’t want to love her, but here we are (talking about Lucy, not the wife and daughter).

Anyway, if you happen to have the good fortune of owning a dog, you already know there are so many great things about it.

The unconditional love.

The excitement no one else in your life will ever have for you when you return from being gone ten minutes.

The tail-wagging faster than windshield wipers set on high.

The warmth and comfort laying next to them on the floor, or if you’re like us, the bed.

The deep-sleep twitching that defies the boundaries of sweetness.

But for all those great things about being a dog parent, there are some realities of dog ownership we don’t discuss often (even though I’ve mentioned them before here and here).

In a word: poop. With big dogs come big poops. For the longest time, because I bought it when Max was the world's cutest puppy, the only thing I had was a small scoop to clean up the yard after my big dog.

It was frustrating, time consuming and extremely unpleasant. Just like my high school girlfriend.

Stay with me. It may not seem like it, but I’ll land the plane in a minute. Sometimes, even though the obvious answer is right in front of me I just don’t see it. I remember one time I was having lunch with a co-worker at Carl’s Jr. right after the BBQ Chicken Club sandwich came out. I told her, “This would be a great sandwich if it didn’t have that flavorless bacon.” To which she replied, “Take the bacon off.”

Like I said, slow on the uptake.

Here’s what that has to do with dog poop. We were at our fabulous friend Joan’s house one day. Joan had two or three large dogs, and at one point she went to clean up after them. I noticed she was using a super-sized poop scooper, and was easily making short work of the souvenirs her pups had left. The clouds parted, the angel choir sang and a little voice in my big head said, “Don’t you feel stupid now Einstein.”

Later that very same day, I became the proud owner of the large poop-removal device you see here: the easy-grip, rubber-fitted wood handle, the oversized tray, the convenient clasp that keeps the two together when not in use.

It’s definitely made the chore much more, not fun, but less unpleasant. There’s no struggle to make things fit. I’m able to collect more at once. And it’s far less stressful and time-consuming than it used to be.

No snappy end line today—poop is funny enough. But all this talk of it does remind me of the old joke: There's this guy who ran off to join the circus. The job he got was walking behind the elephants, scooping up their droppings. When his friend told him he should quit, and asked him how he could do such an awful, disgusting job the guy said, "What? And give up show business?"

Shred this

Telecasters, gnarly waves and skateboards are just a few of things the word shred applies to. But this past weekend, I decided to finally get off my fat yet supple ass and go shred classic: documents.

The IRS, those friendly government folk who have their hands in your paycheck every two weeks, suggest keeping your tax returns forever, and the backup documents and receipts for seven years before getting rid of them.

Well, never let it be said I can’t take direction. In the cabinets above my son’s closet were accordian files and boxes filled with receipts for every year going back to 1995, and actual tax returns going back even further.

You do the math. Never mind, I’ll do it for you. That’s 26 years and then some.

It was a chore I’d been putting off, because frankly every time I’d look at my little personal shredder I could see it trying really hard not to make eye contact with me. It was like it was in the front row at an improv show when they were asking for volunteers.

Also, it never could’ve handled it. The motor overheats after about five minutes of straight shredding, and the tiny bin fills up fast and has to be emptied over and over and over.

After sorting out what I was going to keep—the most recent ten years worth—I decided to have the rest of it one and done by calling a professional shredding company. A quick search on Yelp, and I landed on PFS Shredding. In a word, they were awesome.

The truck you see above pulled up to the house. Immediately all the neighbors started wondering what secrets I had that were so important I had to hire a professional to do my shredding. I imagine the international spy theories were flying fast and furious—something I'm accustomed to given how similar Daniel Craig and I are built.

Or maybe they thought I was part of the last administration, just tiding up the paper trail before leaving the White House.

Anyway, my new best friend Mark, who owns PFS, rolled that trash bin up to my front door, and I emptied my boxes and folders full of papers into it. He rolled it back to the truck, where it was lifted and dumped into the shredder.

There’s a camera inside the truck, and I got to watch all my documents being shredded on that screen to the left of the bin elevator. I can’t adequately express the thrill of see decades of papers turned into confetti so fast. 26 years of documents were shredded in three minutes.

Also, PFS was out to my house within two hours of my call. So yes, the minute he left I wrote him a stellar Yelp review.

Now I’m on a complete tear. Every piece of paper and receipt I don’t need from now on is going into a box, and when I have enough I’m calling Mark again and having him bring his big old confetti making truck back.

It'll give the neighbors something to look forward to.

The opening monologue

If you’re anything like me—and really, there are far better, although not more handsome, role models—you’ve also watched Saturday Night Live for years. And in all that time, two things remain steadfastly true.

First is that the monologue and Weekend Update are the best parts of the show. And second, everything after Update is a comedy wasteland.

I have a few favorite monologues done by some people who I wouldn’t have thought I’d find myself liking. And because I’m a giver despite being an only child, I wanted to share them with you because we all need a good laugh right about now, amIrite?

I’ve never been a big Justin Timberlake fan, but I have to say he was pitch perfect in his monologue about how he wasn’t going to sing. You can literally feel the reaction of the girl he sings to in the audience. A little trivia: John Mulaney and Seth Meyers won an Emmy for the lyrics and the song.

A Swifty I’m not, but Taylor Swift cracked me up with her innocent sweetness as she delivers this razor-sharp take down of boys who’ve done her wrong.

SNL alumni Adam Sandler not only has a few surprise guests during his opening, but sings a great song about getting fired from the show and how it worked out for him.

For my money, the monologue is always better when a comedian is hosting. John Mulaney was a writer on SNL for years, and is now one of the premier stand-ups in the country. Here’s a little sample of the reason why.

Zach Galificanakis has his weirdness and Steven Wright one-liners on full display during his SNL stint. And he plays piano, so who says there are no surprises left?

Goodbye Joe

Even though the year is still young, we’ve already lost some of the greats. Christopher Plummer. Cicely Tyson. Cloris Leachman. Hal Holbrook. And today we lost another, although famous in a different way.

Joe Allen died today.

Joe was a restauranteur whose Broadway restaurant in New York became the pre and post show place to dine. Civilians and celebrities alike came for the stellar menu, which changed daily, and the casual yet pampering service that just made you feel special.

Adorning the exposed brick walls were posters not of the hit plays New York audiences and tourists enjoyed, but the flops that opened and quickly closed—often on the same night.

When the wife and I were in NY a few years ago waiting to see Noel Coward's Present Laughter with Kevin Kline (who won the Tony for it), as usual we wanted to have our pre-show meal at Joe Allen’s. We didn’t have reservations, but we thought we’d give it a shot.

While we were waiting to speak to the host, it became obvious the person in front of us didn’t have reservations either. When he was told he couldn’t be seated he got quite irate and asked the host for his name.

The host said his name was Elizabeth Montgomery

The man left the restaurant, and when we walked up to the stand the first thing I said to him was, “Miss Montgomery I just want you to know we’re big fans of yours.” He gave me a wink and said, “Two? Right this way.”

For years there was a west coast Joe Allen’s on 3rd Street in Los Angeles. It was always one of my favorite restaurants for dates, meetings or just hanging out. I remember having lunch there on the patio with my friend Kevin Nealon years ago, and he started telling me about this sketch he and Dana Carvey had come up with about two Arnold-like bodybuilders named Hans and Franz.

So as you can imagine, I left the lunch feeling pretty pumped up.

Anyway, even at 87-years old, closing night came too soon for Joe. But we find some comfort knowing his restaurant will go on being a Broadway institution. And you can be sure my wife and I will always be there whenever we’re in town.

And on the lookout for Elizabeth Montgomery.

Stop the presses

You may have noticed since the unstable genius and his brown-nosing, boot-licking, ass-kissing, Russian-owned, democracy-hating, riot-inciting, fact-denying, fear-mongering minions have left the building—despite the physical and mental wreckage they left in their wake—a quiet sense of calm and professionalism is permeating the country.

As of January 20th, most people aren’t worried about Biden hitting the nuclear button because he didn’t like a tweet. Or firing someone because they didn’t kiss the ring. No one’s worried he’ll want to have a military parade to compensate for his little…hands. And there’s now absolutely zero chance of Ted Nugent, Kid Rock or known Russian spies ever being invited to the White House. Or what I like to call a win-win-win situation.

What there is however is a definite confidence that, finally, the adults are in charge.

Perhaps nowhere in the administration, besides the Oval office, is this change in attitude more acutely felt than in the White House press briefing room.

Since Jen Psaki has been named WH Press Secretary, the daily briefings—the back and forth, the Q&A—has been something it hasn’t been in four years: civil. Now that we're past the less-than-peaceful transition, the press are welcome to ask anything they want. Psaki answers all questions as best she can, and when she doesn’t have an answer she either gets back to the reporter or refers them to someone who does.

It doesn’t come as any surprise she takes her job seriously and handles it as well as she does. Psaki was the traveling press secretary for Obama during the 2008 and 2012 campaigns, and after he won was Deputy Press Secretary, then Deputy Communications Director. She was also spokesperson for the U.S. Department of State.

Psaki and the Biden administration seem to understand the role of a free press as watchdog and eyes of the American people into what their leaders are doing or not doing.

You don’t see Jen Psaki screaming fake news every time a reporter asks a question she or her boss doesn’t’ like. She doesn’t get into screaming matches with reporters. She doesn’t insult them like they’re on the playground. She has a clear understanding of her role in the administration, her responsibilities to the American people and a healthy respect for the history of the position she holds.

We all know there's been a string of unqualified, hostile Trump cronies with none of those qualities that held the job before her. I’m not naming names *cough* McEnany *cough*, *cough* Huckabee *cough*, *cough* Spicer *cough*.

Even though reporters aren't supposed to reveal their sources, you can feel the vibe in the press room: they're all happy to say they heard it from Jen Psaki.

Next question.

Podcast news

If you’re anything like me—and if you are you really need to set your sights higher—you’re always on the lookout for new ways to entertain yourself. I was like that before the covid, and my search has only intensified since.

Since the lockdown or stay at home or isolating ourselves or whatever this Twilight Zone time we’re living in began, like everyone else I’ve done more than my share of Netflix, Hulu, Amazon Prime Video, Disney+ and AppleTV viewing.

In fact, I’ve been streaming so much my urologist has me on speed dial! BAM! Thanks so much, I’ll be here all week. Tip your waitress. You’ve been a great crowd.

Anyway, having blown through The Crown, The Morning Show, The Queen's Gambit, Jeffrey Epstein Filthy Rich, Servant, The Hunters, Broadchurch, Dead To Me, Ted Lasso, For All Mankind, The Vow, The Last Dance, Defending Jacob, The Rookie, several Dave Chappelle specials, Jim Gaffigan specials, John Mulaney specials, Bruce Springsteen’s Letter To You (surprise!), Breaking Bad (binge 14 if you’re keeping count), American Murder, The Great British Baking Show and several others I can’t even remember, I decided it was time to look for other forms of amusement since covid doesn’t look like it’s wrapping anytime soon.

There was a joke going around last year that if you didn’t start a podcast in 2020 you were never going to start one. I was thinking about that, and thought I’d look and see how I could expand my podcast repertoire.

I sampled a lot of them, and listen to two of them regularly.

First is Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me (WWDTM), the NPR game show that has three different panelists each week, usually comedians or comedy writers, answering questions about current events and playing the game with callers. It’s extremely funny, timely and always enjoyable.

The other one is The Al Franken Podcast. Former comedian and senator, Franken has guests from both the worlds of entertainment and politics, and reminds me every Sunday what a brilliant mind and champion for justice the senate lost.

If you want proof, just listen to the episode of the questions he would’ve asked Amy Coney Barrett had he been at the confirmation hearings.

But my latest podcast binge—because apparently that’s the only way I know how to listen or watch anything—is Smartless.

Here’s the drill: each week, Jason Bateman, Sean Hayes and Will Arnett get together and insult each other. Also, one of them brings along a guest the other two don’t know about, and hilarity ensues. It is a seriously funny, laugh out loud, good time.

So far I’ve listened to the episodes with Bryan Cranston, Martin Short, Sarah Silverman, James Corden, Conan O’Brien, Ron Howard, Kamala Harris, Reese Witherspoon and Ricky Gervais. I’m about to start the one with Stacy Abrams.

I cannot recommend this podcast enough. Give it a listen, thank me later.

If I’m being honest, and of course no one’s under oath here, I was also thinking about starting a podcast of my own. I wouldn’t want to do it by myself though, especially since Smartless has shown me the many benefits and humorous possibilities of having partners to play off of.

Maybe I’ll see if can cajole my pal Rich Siegel over at Round Seventeen to do one with me.

Instead of Smartless, we could call it Smartass.