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.