"An apple a day keeps the doctor away."

Apples, doctors, health?

Please. That's almost as true as the Cosmopolitan magazine theory that eating a yogurt a day keeps yeast infections away. That is to say, it's not true.

Looking back on the reason for this treason, I've considered a few things. The most apt theory implies that apples must not have tasted good when they first became a regular on the kid menu. Such that, mothers everywhere banned together to make up some ridiculous rhyme to get them into bellies.

Rhymes are the first sign that something is askew. Take for example this ditty I just made up: "A mushroom a week will give you a great physique." Maybe if that's the only thing you ate, but mushrooms alone have the potential to make you cracked out of your gourd.

If anything, carry away just this one thing: just because it's a rhyme doesn't mean it's accurate.

Another perfect example: "Hang your clothes up, and I'll get you a pup." Boy, I'm not getting you a dog, even if you hang up my clothes too.

Rhymes are the devils delight. That's a fact.

Out of Breath

If you're reading this, you're alive. You did it! Don't give me this ear full saying you've had enough. Enough life. I told an 80-year-old that I didn't want to live til I was 80. I immediately regretted saying it as it poured out of my regretful face. This woman is so full of life, of breath, air. Sure, every time I see her she's showing some more gums and less teeth, but she's chill.

Every day I see her at work and think, no, you're not out of breath until your body is decomposing in the ground. Out of breath is the same as without breath. So, as long as you're "with it," you have it. The key is to skip wasting it.

"candy, beer, chips and snacks -- that's what makes the tummy fat."

This saying is not in widespread use, BUT IT SHOULD BE. Perhaps the new slogan for Michelle Obama's War on Fat Middle Schoolers? I could see it. A beautifully toned-armed-MO standing beneath a plastic banner, while kids whose parents claim "haven't grown into their bodies" let this non-rhyming life advice sink in.

For nearly 26 years, though I've only paid attention for the last 10, my father has repeated this sentiment time and again. Of course, he's the same turd buying Sara Lee premade cakes and cookies that, while they don't even taste good, you eat because they're still cookies, and they're there, so they're adequate.

There's no ifs, ands, or buts, candy, beer, chips and snacks make the tummy fat. Even if you're a high-metabolism-having-14-year-old boy, eventually those tasty treats will not only bite you in the ass, but create one. And not the good, taut booties coveted by JLo and Beyonce, but rather the rippled messes trailing behind unhappy teachers. Michelle gets it.

"Candy, beer, chips and snacks 2012!"

"It's all in your head."

I spend a great deal of time pouring over The New York Times, CNN, Variety, E!, and basically anything that streams on NPR. Perhaps it's my journalistic inclination to question the world and soak in the news as it's the very vehicle that is for both questioning and answering.

A few weeks ago I spent a great deal of time reading and rereading "What Happened to the Girls in Le Roy," an article published March 7, in the New York  Times.

My favorite part of the piece was a comment by a woman whose daughter was diagnosed with a sort of "hysteria of tics" brought on by stress. She essentially said, "What is this, the 70s?" referring to the years and years where "women's diseases" were prevalent, ranging from Post-Partum to other confidence-surrending ailments.

This article brought back into the public eye this "female disease," but now it's news because it's so out of the ordinary, when back in the day stress sicknesses were buried in psychotherapy appointments. We've all seen Betty Draper on Madmen detail her housewife problems to her therapist, and the subsequent need for attention.To her credit, she was married to a liar. I love Don Draper as a character, but men in the '60s, no thank you.

The notion that your body can manifest a physical ramification of something your mind can't deal with really freaks me out. It's not all in your head once the first crack in the glass creeps through, gradually shattering the facade. So, no, it's not all in your head. Usually when you feel like someone dislikes you, or this that or the other, you're not wrong. You may have blown it out of proportion, sure, but that doesn't make it any less real.

Now is the winter of our discontent

"Discontent is the first necessity of progress."-T. Edison

The downfall of one person is the upswing of another. In Mark Zuckerberg's case, his billionaire status has cost the world hours upon ours of wasting time in front of their Facebook accounts. We're comparing and contrasting ourselves against one another. Looking at the status updates of our "bestfriends" and wondering, "Why wasn't I invited to that A, B or C!?" 


I've spent 365 dicking around on Facebook. On Twitter. Even on LinkedIn. That's when you know there's a problem.


The last sketch I wrote was nearly six months ago. What the fuck is wrong with me? This notion that things just happen. That life takes the reins for a second and you can just sit back licking a snowcone — that's what's wrong with our Facebook nation.


So, here it is. Discontent is on the rise. And thank God. Or Thomas Edison. 


Let's make way for progress.

There's a method to my madness

I'd say check out serial killers if you want to see what fucked up looks like.

But, if you'd like to get down to semantics then there's another story here. Madness implies chaos. It implies a sense of "I-don't-know-what's-happening,-but-it's-happening.-Ahh!-I'm-the-Hulk-now"-sort of mayhem only read about in graphic novels and women's self-help books.


The truth is, it's not madness if there's a method. It's all right there in the sentence, friends.

That said, rage, rage, rage, rage, rage, slam poetry, rage, rage, rage.

Say I'm pretty. Now.

You Can't Have Ice-Cream for Breakfast

Peanut Butter Cup, Cherry Garcia, Mint Chocolate Chip, Cookie Dough, Double Chocolate Brownie Fudge, Sherbet — these aren't good for you at 5pm. They aren't good for you ever. They're good though. So very good.

Why not start your day off "good."

9am — 1/2 cup of Ben & Jerry's. Sounds right, doesn't it? Just put some gummy bears on the side, and you've got yourself the best start to the day. No eggs necessary.

"Cleveland Rocks"

We've all seen it:


Drew Carey Show

We know it:
"I'll move to Cleveland, the day you get that IKEA."
http://www.imdb.com/video/hulu/vi2380267545/
30 Rock

I'm pretty sure that the 2000s got it right. The 90s are out, Carey.

Cleveland does not rock. We're with you Lemon.

dear bike riding.

you are a formidable way to get exercise without paying a gym membership fee.

however. you are not free. nay. you cost my body both time and money. the chiropractor wasn't working out. $250 down the drain. the very cost of a bicycle, upwards of a hundo. a bike light. stolen. or lost. whichever. doesn't matter. fifteen bones cast to the wind.

while you're still the best mode of transport this side of a flat earth, you are no easy feat.

spring, i welcome you. riding will be better. it gets better.

dear nora

My best friend Nora Ephron and I have spent the better part of a week together. It's always fun when a friend arrives from out of town to visit. But I do feel awful that I've been so busy with work and shows. And, yes, of course she understands. What sort of bestie wouldn't? But, what sort of bestie would I be if I didn't feel bad?

I read her book, "I Remember Nothing," and I laughed a lot. But sort of that inwards laugh, that stifled comedian laugh, where I'm jealous that you made my body incapable of resisting reaction. The sort of laughter that a best friend can instigate, one that I wished I could in her.

I'm sure anyone can gather when you have a best friend of such esteem, it's hard to be in the shadow. But, alas, I suppose I understand now how she must have felt with her old best friend, Lillian Helm. I'm jealous of her relationship with Lil as well, I must admit.

It's not fair though. Oh well. I still love her. Even though we're unreciprocated bestfriends.