Never name a handsoap "Liquid Nature".

Seriously Drudge, a little more explanation would be nice.

You aint got traffic like LA's got traffic...

My Body is So Weird...

My body is so weird.

I feel like it's a rental that I was stuck with, forever.

I had surgery on my bum left ear a month and a half ago, and while simultaneously not fixing the screeching hiss I hear whenever sounds are loud, I now hear the constant gentle roll of a distant kettle drum to go behind it. (Not the loud BOOM of a drum hit, but the soft droning paradiddle of a coming unplesant event.) And as of three minutes ago a random clicking has joined the symphony, a sibling snapping his tounge on a roadtrip, forever.

My body is not mine.

This morning I had two very unplesant experiences in the bathroom as my Crohn's Disease is restless and thought It'd say hello. Winching as I pushed, my bathroom was a maternity ward and even the gentle burgundy of my bathroom mat was not enough to calm the fire within me. I am used to my Crohn's getting pissed at me, but it never makes dealing with it any easier. And I'm out of Lysol.

My body is so unpredictable.

Sometimes I think it's all I can do to keep working out, rallying the labour union of muscle within me to fight against the tyrannical forces pulling at my flesh. I did not ask for them.

My body is a work-in-progress.

As is this blog entry....

I think it's finally time to work...

I've finished chatting with Zac, finished reading reviews, finished mapping the spot for tonight, finished painfully using the bathroom twice, finished putting on (then taking off) my hoodie, finished turning the heat off which I am considering now turning back on, finished spinning my iPhone in my hand obsessively, finished looking through old pictures of that one car that was cut in half, finished touching but ultimetly not pleasuring myself, finished talking to my father, finished reading about Somali pirates, finished sleeping for just another couple of minutes, finished feeling sorry for myself, finished walking in and out of the living-room, finished shivering cause that heat's going the hell back on, finished listening to world-music, finished drinking the coffee from yesterday, finished cutting my nails to they con't click when I type, finished making my to-do list for today (which looks identical to my to-do list from yesterday), finished waiting for my coputer, finished waiting for life.

And now it's time to work.

Undies. That last word always stands out to me.

I used this bin when I was moving across country, precariously stuffing all my possessions into whatever packing bins I could before beginning my ultimate cannonball run. I wrote the contents of each bin on the upper left-hand corner, and now that I use this as my hamper "undies" always stands out to me.

I often wonder why this one item always jumps off the plastic so. I suppose because it's such a vulnerable way to say underwear. "Underwear" implies the "undermost layer of my wearings". "Undies" implies "The undermost layer of my wearings that my mom still washes and folds for me". "Undies" implies "Don't forget your toothbrush and undies at Marcus's house again", if I was a child and leaving for a sleep-over and ever had a friend named Marcus. "Undies"is my inner 7-year-old getting ready for his big drive and that's just what my outer 26-year-old must have thought when he wrote it on this bin so long ago.

But I'm older now. I'm almost 30 and have a nice collection of underwear, most of which doesn't embarrass me when someone sees inside of them. Like most "Men" I have a nice big bed, carpets under my feet and "underwear" covering my vulnerable genitalia and if you asked me to show you my "undies" I wouldn't know where to point you.

But for the one moment where I open the dryer and smoosh my hot laundry against my face I know exactly where my undies are, I'm wearing them. For that one moment, blankets and towels warming my skin sucking me deep into my childhood, I'm on my way to Marcus's house and even though I still never had a friend named Marcus all the warmpth of a Mothers kiss radiates through my hot clean laundry. And into the bin underneath me it falls, and is capped, and on the hand-cart it looks up at me and reminds me that while I might be a man now, I'm always going to be wearing undies.

And that's just fine with both of us.

I don't know what part of being proud of your gayness necessitates
dancing on a float in your underwear, but it sure seems to work for
them.

Hey whomever put this up uhhhh, fuck you.

They're obviously getting their stories from different friends.

I can see one of your branches dying plant, and I'm sorry. For awhile I thought my matchstick splint would mend the spot where the branch folded, but now I see that it didn't and I'm sorry. Seemed poetic enough to work.

When my friend gave me to you cause he was maybe going to jail I took you home proudly, confident I'd give you a good home. "Put it outside" my friend suggested, and I did, suggesting he garden in jail, but the wind was too strong and your branches broke and I moved you inside.

So indoors I moved you, placing you with the other plants that almost died when I put them outside. (While they're not as majestic as you your struggle is similar and I thought you'd have something to talk about). And for awhile, it was good. I'd water you with the jug from Trader Joes and spray the branches you have left with the green water-bottle I store above my Voice Over booth, which is badass. You seemed to thrive in your little hovel and I began to think of the smile on my friend's face when I called him in jail and told him how well you were doing.

But then I woke up and another of your branches had broken in the night, folded over upon itself, much like it's previous owner. And determined to save this branch I made a makeshift splint out of two wooden matchsticks and some gaff tape. Hurriedly I applied the splint, sure to support the weight of the branch and wrap it strong, for support. With breath in my throat I waited and watched you closely. And incredibly, your leaves stayed green. Proudly I boasted of having saved you like Mr. Myagi in Krate Kid 3 if he was the boastful type, and life continued on.

But now I see I failed you again. Awaking to jackhammering I awoke to see the branch begin to die. Slowly I will watch it turn brown knowing that if another one dies so might you.

And after I killed the Wandering Jew my friend also gave me I can't let this happen. Especially since he might get out some time.

-Ben

Ooh Im always interested when someone calls it "The curious case".

Christmas at the Grove

Well, Thanksgiving is over and now it's on to Christmas, but to tell you the truth living in Los Angeles neither feels particularly real. It's too damn warm here. Nowhere in the Night Before Christmas did I hear mention of a palm tree or a brush-fire. I just don't buy it.

And nowhere was this more apparent than Christmas at the Grove.

The Grove, for all of you who don't live in LA, is a Italian-themed super-pavillion where on any given stroll you can see a movie, get some dippin dots, or watch the fountains dance to Andrea Bochelli's wrenching "Goodbye". It's an Oasis of fax cultural consumerism in the middle of Los Angeles, a place not known for it's authenticity, and while I appreciated their stab at building a "Winter Wonderland", beach weather does not a cockle warm.

I went to the Grove hoping to suck up some Christmas cheer but the second my friends and I walked in it was clear we wouldn't be finding it here. Unable to get to the front of the stage we were forced to watch the festivities on a plasma set up between the tree and the back of the proscenium. "Band from TV", a cover-act comprised of television personalities blared out holiday classics as a very bored John Lovitz emceed despite the massive tranquilizers he appeared to be on. As the actor who plays House finished a kickin' keyboard solo something really didn't seem to be connecting with me. It was too goddamn warm.

Remembering the bundled-up chill that would accompany swooning for the holidays I couldn't help but think that these California kids were being severely fucked with. Where I grew up we had evergreen trees and snow, and neither of those were on a backlot - Santa rides a sleigh, not a surfboard. I suppose I've always equated holiday cheer to the elements and try as I might I couldn't get the goosebumps up - even when they dropped soap-chips on us and lit the tree I wasn't moved in any way.

And then they airlifted Santa in.

Yep.

With much fanfare, Santa belayed down, precariously descending on a flimsy zipwire like a yultide SWAT. And then, right as he was about to land, he got stuck - dangling for a good 20 seconds above the stage as production assistants swiped at his levitating boots for a christmas foothold. Lovitz seemed like he didn't even know it was happenning. It was around this point I really began to long for New England.



And then the fireworks went off. The perfect anachronism to an already odd holiday mashup, once the Snow Patrol had landed Santa safely on the stage the attention shifted east as a loud and impressive fireworks display lit up above the massive tree. To point out that it seemed like the 4th of JuChristmas would be unnecessary, this wasn't jolting me out of a Hallmarkian Christmas dream, it was kicking my ass. This place wasn't trying to illuminate the humbler corners of my heart, it was trying to pry open my third eye and lay it's eggs under the lobe. This was full-on-holiday-overload and if I wasn't man enough to enjoy the explosions in and around Santa's no-fly-zone then it was my fault for not being able to tap into everyone else's fuckin' awesome happiness.

And this realization set me free. Santa probably had to go down on someone to be able to go down on the zipwire tonight- this was Christmas for the sold-of-soul, and I was one of them. Welcome to LA you little bitch.

Strolling out of the pavillion once the cerimony had ended my friends and I were laughing about the whole experience as a vendor began handing out free samples of coffee grounds. Accepting that this Christmas was neither the time nor the place for Christmas cheer, we began to stuff our pockets with as many samples as we could manage. Set to the backdrop of BMW's and Mercede's being pulled out of the vallet by underpaid Mexicans, we walked away filled to the brim with free coffee. My friends gave some of them to people we passed on the street but I didn't. These were mine. All mine.

And I'd be back next year for more.

Thanks.

Thanks to the media for making news entertaining, I can't stop watching. Thanks for the carpets in my room that make being here all the time so comfortable. Thanks for the Ralphs across the street, anytime I want. Thanks for the clicking in my ear whenever things get to loud, and thanks for the grinding sound I can hear right now. Thanks for getting me home safely last night. Thanks for the hangover which should probably be a lot worse. Thanks for Dead Can Dance on in the background, that's some mystical shit. Thanks for the "r" key on my keyboard that is slowly dying. Thanks for my sister's 3rd Brooklyn apartment - the apple doesn't fall far from it's older brother who is also an apple. Thanks for president Obama. Thanks for Psytrance. Thanks for this last little bit'o' weed. Thanks for my parents, I have a lot to live up to. Thanks for the chair I got when the rock band moved out and sold me a whole bunch of furniture for $150, which when looking back worked out very well for me. Thanks for the big room in this apartment. Thanks for my new roommate, he's surprisingly non-psycho for someone I found off Craigslist. Thanks for spell check being so merciful on this post. Thanks for what's to come. Thanks for what's come already (most of it anyway). Thanks for 6th avenue and walking to the beat. Thanks for highways at dawn and beaches at dusk. Thanks for my 20s. Thanks for my better nature. Thanks for my worse nature (most of it anyway). Thanks for my friends, I have no complaints there. Thanks for the internet. Thanks for Hulu, fuck you Cable Company. Thanks for dis beat. Thanks for that little bit of grass that always grows just after a rain in Los Angeles, it never lasts but it's really pretty while it's there. Thanks for...

Well. Thanks.

I Feel Weird

Something's just not right. I feel hot and cold and out of it and with it. My skin is loose and brain is looking in either direction. The window should be closed. No, open. I need to smoke pot. I need to not smoke pot. I think I have the flu, no, worse, mono, no, typhoid, no, confusion. Something is off. I feel weird.

I'm not sure what's going on but something in my body is unhappy. I walked home from the gym yesterday still wearing my sweaty workout clothes and I think I got AIDS from the walk. I showered right when I got back, but I'm sure those sweaty clothes gave me cancer and even though I've been sleeping on and off all day I can still feel the gangrene setting in. I'm not sure what's going on, but from the looks of the pink and purple eyes I see in my mirror, something is off. Wait, that's my nose, It just landed in the sink.

I'm going to take NyQuil. I'm going to the hospital. No, I'm going to make some tea and watch Springer and then when I'm done I'm going to the graveyard to pick out my plot. And after I do that I'm going to visit my grandmother because her saliva is magical and will fix me up. Or maybe the PH is off... that could cause me to molt. But I better do something quick, come that full moon tonight I'll be running around as the Wolfman, and anyone I bite is going to have to deal with one heck of a transformation. Not to mention the gout.

STRIKE? So I guess I won't work now...

I'm not a huge fan of SAG. Any labour union having 3% of it's members proudly working at any given time can't be successfull, can it? And yet, that's just where SAG falls.

It's no secret that being an actor is a financially ruinous choice falling somewhere between scooping coins from a fountain and living off of sweepstakes winnings. In fact I am loath to even call myself an "actor" - my saving grace being that I've done stand-up long enough I can confidently call myself a "comedian" - a financially ruinous choice falling somewhere between scooping leftover coins and crashing on the couches of sweepstakes winners.

And now SAG is striking. Yes, Hollywood is striking, again. As if this year couldn't have been any worse, it's time to go back to the picket lines and walk in solidarity with the other 97% of us who aren't doing shit.

And that's my big problem.

"The SAG, representing more than 120,000 actors in movies, television and other media, said in a statement that it will launch a "full-scale education campaign in support of a strike authorization."

They're NOT representing 120,000 actors in movies television and other media, they're representing about 2,000 actors in movies television and other media backed up by the other 198,000 who want to be them. Sure I borrowed money from my Dad to pay the rent this week, but man, I'm helping the dream to stay alive. For all of us.

And so allow me a little LA cynicism. I get the letters and the robocalls from famous people telling me which way to vote on SAG matters when the truth is that I have no direct relationship with what they're talking about. But take $200 from me every half-year? Sounds good - keep fighting that good fight while I type up another email to my Dad about why December is going to be different. Maybe if you had given a script about me before this I'd be inclined to care.

Behold. The mighty LA river.

Frozen Mi

I woke up today sure I'd finally get some work done. Last night I forwent hanging out with friends at the Improv in order to go home and really chip away at the old screenplay only to find myself eating my roomate's Nutella while reading about a haunted hospital. No progress was made on the screenplay, but I told myself that in case my characters ever find themselves in a haunted hospital this was important field research.

And I suppose that's fundamentally my problem - I hate the concentration involved with writing, and because of the the doughnut-like warmth of the internet, don't find myself doing much of it anymore. I used to be able to focus for longer than a blink but there's so much quirky crap on-line these days that if I blink I just might miss some of it. Hell I'm only two paragraphs into this piece and can feel myself wanting finish the video-tour of the frozen pizza factory I was streaming from the BBC website. I do have actual shit to do today but say my characters discover a frozen pizza in the haunted hospital? What then?

I thought so.

Charles Southward is a Good Person

Somehow I lost my wallet while walking home from Ralphs tonight, my arms akimbo with Sunday groceries. When I realized my wallet was conclusively nowhere in my apartment my breathing began to quicken as I envisioned the administrative hell it would be to replace everything contained within it.

As the slow and foggy panic set in I checked my email as I do every nine seconds to find not one but TWO emails from a one Mr. Charles Southward, informing me that he had found my wallet and might I want something like that back? I called him immediaetly and said that yes, getting my wallet back might be nice, and 15 minutes later I was being handed my wallet by my Mr. Charles Southward not a couple blocks from my apartment. He was a nice guy, smoked a cigarette and kind of looked like an older Billy Dee Williams. An older Billy Dee Williams in the movie where he has my wallet.

So thank you Charles Southward. The universe needs more people like you. Visa and Master Card, thankfully, do not.

From Crohn's Advocate Magazine - A Lighter Look at Crohn's.

Hello friends. My name is Ben and I've had Crohn's Disease since 1997 when papa Crohn made digesting kind of hard. Ironically I was kind of an overweight kid in High School and losing 30 pounds in a month was actually kind of nice.

And if you laughed at that, Good. If you didn't, try. Laughing about Crohn's is incredibly therapeutic and I'll never forget how I found this out.

I was 23 years old, dealing with a nasty flare, and was doing stand-up in a small club near Columbia University. On this particular night I was totally bombing and as my mind went blank a letter I had received popped into my head. In it my insurance was declining payment for a recent colonoscopy on the grounds that ‘It wasn't a necessary procedure’, and still baffled by how anyone could think a colonoscopy was ever elective I decided to open up to the audience. “Do they think I was sitting around really bored one day being like, 'You know what, I haven't seen the inside of my own rectum in awhile and I got six thousand dollars just layin’ around, what say we go and get probed!?." The audience exploded with laughter. Crohn’s, as it turned out, could be funny.

That night changed how I look at my disease. In that one moment I had communicated to a room-full of strangers that I had a digestive disease and in a certain light, my digestive disease was hilarious. Never again would I let it scare me into silence when the truth was funnier than all the other jokes I had actually spent time writing.

Since that day I've made it my mission to get people to communicate through humor. The worst thing you can do is to crawl inside of yourself because you think you can't talk about what's happening with you, especially when it might be some grade A material. Is there anyone who can beat us at a farting contest?! No. And I got the story to prove it.

So try and allow the funny to flow, it's been put there for a reason. If you find the guts to make jokes about yours I promise you people will listen. Heck, you might even get a laugh or two. Sure worked for me.

Hey would you know where I could find some art? Oh. Thanks.

I am a Sweaty Bastard

I don't think there's any denying it to myself anymore - I am a sweaty
bastard. Yesterday I went to do an interview in Griffith Park and I
wore a collared shirt and walked to the location cause I can. Halfway
up the walk I looked down to see pools of sweat forming in my blue
shirt, which made it look like reefs underneath the surface of the
fabric. When I got there I said hello to my friends and had to stand
on the porch, catching some nice up-breezes in an effort to dry out my
shirt before the interview. And I admit it now. I am a a sweaty
bastard.

I throw out most of my collard shirts because of pit-stains. I've
tried every possible type of deoderant and or anti-perspirant that
claims that it doesn't leave anything on shirt, and I can tell you now
- they're all wrong. A persistent sweat-gland and an armpit that's
determined enough can ruin a shirt the color of sweat, trust me. I
took this picture attempting to look cool / quirky and all I can think
of when I see it is me looking stupid / sweaty. And I don't know what
to do about it.

Which is making me sweat.

"Hi I'm looking for domestic violence resources."

This is where you recycle clowns.

I dunno what the big deal is. She went from a dude with acne to an
ugly chick without.

Well I should hope so...

All these fucking people smiling at me...

Start what, taking action or being afraid?

START WHAT?!

I... I think I have something of a medical marajuana problem...

And so am I.

Kinda looks like the towel is wincing.

One love. One vibe. One hundred dollars to fill up the tank.

LA you are a cold bitch.

All hail Stanley Kramer, the least famous person on the Hollywood walk
of fame.

Now this is a job I'd show up on time for.

"My Ex-Girlfriend"

LA's the only place you'll see a manequin with fake tits.

So the surgery is on.

Some of you may know that I am almost totally deaf in my left ear.
Because of a long life of inner, middle, upper and lower ear problems
I have lived with basically no hearing in my left ear much to the
annoyance of people in bars and anyone on my left side. Agitated by a
never-ending string of ear infection, my auditory woes ran the gamut
from station tubes, surgery on the middle ear, a bacteria dissolving
the ear drum after surgery, ear-plugs for the hole that the bacteria
dissolved and finally another surgery to seal the hole that was
created after the first surgery went south - the whole ordeal
resulting in a properly sealed ear drum and useless acoustics from the
left side-on.

But then I discovered the ear popping trick.

From about when I was fourteen I discovered that whenever I'd go high
up in elevators or lift-off in a departing plane, I'd momentarily get
hearing back in my left ear. The second I swallowed, de-pressurizing
my middle ear, the hearing would leave, but for those glorious one to
two minutes before I had to swallow it was incredible. I soon learned
that if I held my nostrils together and blew, I could reproduce the
effect and I began doing it whenever I'd listen to music - whole
sections of my desert-island songs would shimmy to the front in ways
I'd never heard while lyrics I could never quite make out came
screaming to my brain like waves of chocolate fury. But then, I'd
swallow, and it was gone. It was back to saying "What?!" anytime
someone tried to speak to me in a loud place, back to executing my
little cross-to-someone's-other-side-pirouette whenever I found myself
on someone's useless right side, back to smiling and nodding in
response to someone's sentence which might as well have been Swahili
for all I understood.

But tomorrow it's time to fix that.

After an exhaustive hunt for facts involving three different doctors,
a law-school's worth of tests and two postponements due to
un-postponable colds, it's time to open her up and see what we can
fix. The ear-popping trick was pushing two things together that
weren't touching and at one thirty tomorrow Dr. Lim rides in to town
to clean out the riff-raff and mend some bridges.I bought a new
THX-certified home theater system for Christmas because of a rebate I
never used, and after tomorrow I'm looking forward to finding out
exactly what that means.

And yes I'm doing this cause I want to, but I'm also doing it because
I owe it to the pubescent little freshman who kept popping his ears to
"Enter Sandman" to say I tried. Life is the culmination of triumphs
over what scares us and that pimply student deserves to know that when
it came time to exit the night and enter the light I went with open
arms, cause that's what I heard I should do.

That and I'm getting some Vicodin.

Yeah I got a saw in my pocket.

Should this be a question? This hospital sucks.

Its a gift from god!

TK as it turns out is handicapped. I now feel bad about my previous
post.

If this is TK's car, TKs an asshole.

You get the feeling hed've rather been a jewler.

it would be unwise to break into this family's house...

My Way News - Cities Switch Off Lights for Earth Hour

My Way News - Cities Switch Off Lights for Earth Hour: "The environmental group WWF urged governments, businesses and households to turn back to candle power for at least 60 minutes starting at 8 p.m. wherever they were."

Having grown up in the 80s, I couldn't help but picture Macho Man Randy Savage urging me to switch to candle power as Andre the Giant comes and bodyslams him into the beautiful Elizabeth's information desk on the advantages of flourescent lightbulbs.

This guy makes islands. Check out his Middle East peace initiave.

http://www.theislandmaker.com

And they wonder why we're so confused.

Sometimes I do miss how insane Damage Control was...

We come from Monkeys.

This is a lottery swipe machine to see if you won the lottery. And for
fifty million people their hope and financial ruin end with a little
beep. I think they should spice it up a bit. As you approach a
drumroll starts playing, and you can't get the result until after
you've bested someone in a game of wits. Something like that.

House of Open. We never close!

Thus pilot season I'm gonna go through this many hilighters!

I walked all the way to ralphs just to get hilighters to stay in and
work on a script. That's, that's kind of poetic yeah?

That's pretty deep for a sports bar and grill.

Is this guy dead?

This is the promise of America.