Hot Water Heater. It’s All about the Bidet. Part II.

I know that most of you didn’t read the previous post about our busted/no good/rotten water heater. Take a second and scroll down to catch up. It’ll take but a minute.

I’ll wait…

Ok… You’re back. So, the plumber people gave us the news: Our water heater was dead. Yeah, we got that.

They were happy to replace our old water heater for $1500. Which is a lot of money. But, we asked… What else ya got?

Editor’s note: Lynn and I have longed for an instant water heater for the bathrooms because they currently take, no kidding, four minutes of water flow before anything becomes even lukewarm. And, we’re in the middle of a drought. So, the state-suggested 5 minute shower is actually ONE minute.

Trust me, there are things I cannot clean in one minute.

Also, the water heater is in the kitchen and we want to remodel.

So, we talked to the plumber boss and we settled on an Instant-Hot-Water system. It’s a bit more pricey. Also, We could use the space as a kitchen cupboard. An additional 50 cubic feet!

But, really, we’re talking about the bidet. No one wants to talk about it. Elephant in the room. The French say “Bih-Day.” The English: “BEE-day.” The girls: “Butt Washer.”

It looks so innocent.

It looks so innocent.

The previous owners of our house built one in to the master bathroom. But, trust me, you don’t want to sit around (literally) for four minutes waiting for warm water to flow. Because, cold water THERE is enough to make you jump. Believe me, I tried it.

These things will change your life. (I’m not kidding.)

So, the plumbers assure of that we’ll have warm water within 30 seconds. Because, my ass if they don’t. Literally.

Hot Water Heater. A Pleonasm* (note the asterisk, see below). Part I.

You know how sometimes, you’re standing in your kitchen at 11:00 at night, and you hear gentle raindrops falling. Then you remember, it’s not supposed to rain tonight. So, you open the door and look out at the beautiful nighttime sky. And you see the moon. And Venus. And even, if you squint hard enough, you can make out Jupiter. There’s not a cloud in the sky.

So, you close the door, and yet, you still hear the drip, drip of water.


So you (and when I say “you,” of course I mean “I”)… So you open up the closet that holds the water heater. And, there’s the source of your “rainfall.” A rusted out unit. Drip, drip, dripping.

Because, come on, how often do you check your water heater for rust?

Because, come on, how often do you check your water heater for rust?

And, it’s 11:00 at night.

So you do what you’re supposed to do: First thing, you wake up your wife. Because, we’re in this together, baby.

OK, so buckets and towels. You turn off the gas pilot light, and shut-off the water intake valve. You attach a hose to the drain (there’s another hilarious slapstick comedy* moment) and open it.

And, nothing drains. Because when you try to let air into the tank, you realize that the shut-off valve is broken. And water starts spraying everywhere.

Did I mention: Crap. And, you’re dog tired.

So, you seal up all the connections and put the buckets under the tank. And, you plan to call the plumber in the morning. Because, there’s nothing you can do about it now.

And, now the plumber is here. Part II of this story will follow. I know you can’t wait. (Neither can I. I need a shower.)

*A Pleonasm is the use of more words than necessary to define something. Like, a hot water heater (you’re not heating hot water). A burning fire. A free gift. A true fact. And, “slapstick comedy.” (Have you ever heard of a slapstick melodrama?) See… Reading this blog will make you intelligently smart.

I’m Too Sexy for this Shirt

I learned on Thursday that People Magazine had bypassed me once again for the title of the world’s Sexiest Man Alive. I admit that I was a little surprised. Instead, they gave the crown to Chris Hemsworth, of whom I have never heard (which I suppose is only fair since I doubt he’s heard of me. Touché.)

Still, going into the final round of voting, I thought I had a shot. Because a) I have a pulse, and b) I’m a dude. So right out of the starting block, I had already leapfrogged 50% of potential opponents.

From what my sources inside the People editorial room tell me, this is where my candidacy seemed to stall. Primarily because of 3 reasons: 1) Not famous. 2) Not rich. And, 3) you know, Not Sexy.

But, I’ll be back again next year. People, you know where to find me (because I keep leaving messages at the reception desk.)

Prime Time Emmy Recap, 2014

Aside from a few goofy pictures of me, there’s a story somewhere in here…

Last year, I missed the Emmy Awards Big Show having had major surgery on my shoulder two days earlier. And, really, who needs another drugged up Hollywood type on the Red Carpet? So, instead, our good friend Gretchen* ( went in my place. This year, Gretchen is out of town, but our friend Eileen is On Deck should anything untoward happen to me. (There’s a long list of people wishing me ill-well, and that’s just for the Emmys.) I am sorry to disappoint her. I’m good to go.

As you may know by now, my beautiful, smart, and talented wife Lynn does Consulting work for the Television Academy. In recognition of her many hours of toiling away they comp her a couple of tickets to the show.

The Academy moved the Awards show to Monday at Rush Hour (this is important later on. Make a mental note), which also happened to be the first day of school. We need to be at the Nokia Theater by mid-afternoon, much too early for us to get the girls and then get downtown. So, Lynn has made arrangements for our neighbor friends to pick up the girls and deliver them to our house.

Our baby sitter is Kay. She is a spry 80-year-old English woman, who is also a Ninja. (I am not kidding:* Lynn lets Kay know that she will put the key under the front door mat in an envelope. (This is also important for later.)

Meanwhile I make a Facebook joke about someone trying to kidnap our children while protected by a Ninja. Then I go off and practice my selfie technique:

I feel Kardashtastic.  Text your favorite to American Idol.  Normal text and data charges apply.

I feel Kardashtastic. Text your favorite to American Idol. Normal text and data charges apply.

We are ready to go.

My new favorite picture.  Prettiest Date Ever.  (I think I've got that whole selfie thing down to a science.)

My new favorite picture. Prettiest Date Ever. (I think I’ve got that whole selfie thing down to a science.)

We leave at around 3:00 for the 5:00 start (East Coast 8:00). We take the 170 to 134 to the 5 to the 110. 15 miles in about an hour and fifteen minutes. Sounds about right.

Because we are considered “Crew,” they direct us to special parking and avoid all the gridlock on the streets around the Nokia. And, we have sweet parking, literally underneath the Theater. One short ride up the escalator, and we are in the lobby. The bad news is: We don’t have a chance to walk the red carpet. (So, no, if you think you saw me on ABC’s pre-show gala, that was probably just Jon Hamm. I get that all the time.)

A quick touch-up of the makeup (Lynn, too), and we make our way to our seats. Stage right, row MM. Not too bad, considering the tickets cost $600 each. (As I said, they were comped.)

Oh look, they are flashing the lights and calling everyone to take their seats.

Did I mention, Prettiest Date Ever?

Did I mention, Prettiest Date Ever?

It’s at about this time when things get interesting…

Things Get Interesting

I get a weird text message:

“There was no key in the envelope.”

I show it to Lynn, who replies: “Ha! Take what you want, but leave the kids.”

Then, Lynn’s phone rings: “Seriously, there’s no key. The envelope is empty.”

Lynn scurries out of the row and heads to the back of the theater, swimming against the stream of Julia Robertses.

She returns.

The key is not in the envelope. The envelope is under the mat, but not where Lynn left it. And, if I didn’t mention this, there is no key. Also, it is not on our keychains. The key is gone.

So, with about 5 minutes to go before Seth Meyers comes out to do his schtick, we have only one choice to make:


You see that smiling picture of Lynn up above. Decidedly not that now.

Now, if you will remember, I mentioned that the Academy has moved the ceremony to 5:00pm on a Monday. And, it is taking place downtown. Off of the 110, the 5, the 134, and the 170. On a good day, that could cost you 2 hours. I get us home in less time than it took to get the the damn theater in the first place.

Because, Ain’t no dingo gonna eat my baby, Bitch! (a Meryl Streep reference by way of Seinfeld and channeled through Breaking Bad? Yes? Anyone?)

We get home. No one is there. But, that’s good, because babysitter Kay has whisked the girls off to Denny’s for crappy pizza and nachos. And, some souvenir cups.

We pull back the mat. The envelope is in a different location. There is no key. We look around on the porch, the grass, the flower pots. No key.

I take my key, and put it in the dead bolt. It is unlocked. I open the door, rush in, and look around for anything missing. Nothing is disturbed. The TV, the computers, and the (well, those are the only things of value).

Merlin the Magician must have scared away the would-be breaker-inners! (At least, that’s our best working theory right now.)

On Guard!

On Guard!

We alert our next door neighbors, and try to sort things out as Kay returns with the girls.

Things calm down. Lynn wants to go back to the show. And to the Governors Ball after-party. (Another $600 a pop. Comped.)

I make the bold decree: I must stay home and protect my family!


Every light is on. The TV is blasting. And, the Ninja is on the job.

I am convinced to return to the ceremony.

We make our way back to the Nokia, sweet talk the ushers to let us back inside, and get to our seats for the last 20 minutes. Bryan Cranston, Modern Family, and Breaking Bad.

I need a drink.

Oh, how convenient, they are handing out champagne on the walk into the Governors Ball. I’ll take two thank you.

And, now it is time to name drop.

I almost step on Sarah Silverman’s dress. Twice.

I did not take this picture since I was protecting my children from the dingoes.

I did not take this picture since I was protecting my children from the dingoes.

On the way in, Lynn dances with Jon Voight.

He's Micky Donovan.  From "Ray Donovan."  Tough Guy.  Brad Pitt's father-in-law.

He’s Micky Donovan. From “Ray Donovan.” Tough Guy. Brad Pitt’s father-in-law.

And, cast members from Orange is the New Black:

Really, it's a Comedy.  Like Prison Break, or Oz, or The Wire.

Really, it’s a Comedy. Like Prison Break, or Oz, or The Wire.

And look! A selfie with Stephen Colbert! He grabs my iPhone, poses and click.

If only he would have let me take the shot.  Because, as you know, I am a self-taught self-taking expert.  (Plus, I know how to use a flash.)

If only he would have let me take the shot. Because, as you know, I am a self-taught self-taking expert. (Plus, I know how to use a flash.)

We eat our dinners, have some champagne, and don’t bother the stars (who, by the way, vanish after about 25 minutes because their own networks have special extravaganzas.) Lynn can’t find Louis CK, McConaughey, Hamm, Louis-Dreyfus, Pohler. They’re all gone.

So, at around midnight, we manage to find the car and get home. There’s a chair under the front doorknob. Kay has a baseball bat. Merlin is dead asleep. Everyone is safe.

At the crack of dawn (and by that, I mean two days later), I buy a new door knob and dead bolt. I install them.

Then, Lynn gets a call from Kay to say that…

Kay: Lynn, was your key silver, with a little ring?

Lynn: Yes.

Kay: Oh, dear.

Ooops, the key was in the bottom of her bag all the time. Looks like the key slipped out of the envelope as Kay picked it up. And, the dead bolt wasn’t thrown because we were in such a rush to get in the car that I forgot it.

[*Editor’s Note: I have never been able to get WordPress (as hosted by GoDaddy) to allow me to insert links to other pages. It never works. (And, no, it’s not just click the Link button and type in the address. That simply doesn’t work. So, copy and paste these URLs into your browser and enjoy.]

Creative Arts Emmy Recap, 2014

Here’s the fun, Creative Arts Emmy story.

These Emmy Awards are given out the week before the Prime Time TV Awards. Don’t misunderstand, these are actual, valid, genuine Emmy Awards. It’s fun. But, it’s 6 hours too long. And, do you really care who won Best Reality Program Non-Scripted but Structured Starring Pretty People in a Hot Tub? (That’s an actual category. Sort of.)

Because of my sway with the TV Academy (aka, my wife Lynn, who is the Consultant on the Music categories), we are actually sitting two rows in front of the crab fishermen Captains from The Dangerous Catch and one row in front of my favorite Mythbusters (you know, the three second-tier Busters).

Unfortunately, the Mythbusters lose out in their category. I turn, and offer condolences. I tell Kari, the only girl: My Daughter Loves Science and wants to be You when she grows up!

Kari: Me Too!

I’m puzzled, but Ok.

After the last award is (Thank God) handed out, we retire across the street to the LA Convention Center for the big, fancy dinner. Lynn and I have a tradition each year where we get our table mates and others to sign the Emmy menu.

I go on a fishing expedition.

Appropriately enough, I track down Johnathan Hillstrand, Captain of The Deadliest Catch’s Time Bandit crab boat at his table.

Me: Did you you have the steak or the seafood?

Him (More than Proudly): I Had the Steak!

We engage in about two minutes of conversation. He’s really a friendly, friendly guy. Lynn says he was hitting on me. Maybe she misinterprets Bro-hugs. Or, maybe he was. (No one has hit on me in 25 years, so I don’t know. Plus he’s married. To a woman. So, whatever)

Look for me in Port, Johnathan….

I head over to the Mythbusters table and strike up conversations with all three of the junior Busters: Grant, Tori, and Kari. They each seem to be genuinely interested in talking with me. But a few martinis will do that to a person.

With Grant Imahara:

How much are you digging my new Tux with the purple silk tie?

How much are you digging my new Tux with the purple silk tie?

And Kari Byron:

The cute one.  Also, there's a girl.

The cute one. Also, there’s a girl.

(And, sadly enough, a couple days after the ceremony, the three “Fan Favorites” were “let go” from the show. Maybe Kari was vaguely alluding to that when she said “Me Too!”…)

I make my way over to the Cosmos table and rudely interrupt this generation’s Einstein, Neil DeGrasse Tyson. And, of course, I gush about how much I love the show and Science and how much Carl Sagan’s original Cosmos series meant to me in the 8th Grade.

Neil: Then you need to talk to Annie. Plus, I’m still eating. (Ok, he didn’t say that last bit.)

He is referring to Ann Druyan, Sagan’s widow, also a co-creator of both of the Cosmos series. More gushing from me. A few martinis will do that to a person.

Allison Janney, who was being ushered out the door by her handler takes the time to talk with me. Allie and I go way back to my days as Extra #152 on the set of The West Wing. Surely she remembers me. No? No.

But, she is exceedingly gracious, gorgeous, and very, very tall.

We also bump into Community’s Joel McHale, who, when he tries to sign the menu tells us, “Your pen sucks!” A few martinis will do that to a person.

So, here’s the menu. We had everyone from our table as well as Music colleagues (Bill Ross, Mark Watters, Michael Levine, Mark Adler, Joanie Diener) and Emmy staff sign. And, some famous people: Captain Johnathan on top, under him is Dr. Cosmos Tyson (who insisted on signing with his own genuine ink pen. “Make sure to let that dry, it’s wet.) Then, McHale smudges everything. Martinis… Ann Druyan signs right under my name. Allison Janney is in there somewhere, as are the Mythbusters.

You could order fish or a vegetarian pasta dish.  But, like Captain Johnathan, I had the steak!

You could order fish or a vegetarian pasta dish. But, like Captain Johnathan, I had the steak!

Urban Blight

Yesterday, the Los Angeles Department of Building and Safety (DBS) issued me a “Courtesy Notice” telling me that the awning over my carport was an “eye-sore” and ordered me to remove it because it was “in public view.” It, apparently, contributes to “Urban Blight.”


The DBS supports “the needs of business and commerce while protecting public safety and the visual environment.”

It supports Business. So, I guess it’s a Win for actual, normal citizens. Business and Commerce First!

Also, a “visual environment.”

My carport offends nobody. And, it is safe.

Look past the Mini-van.  Obviously, Urban Blight.

Look past the Mini-van. Obviously, Urban Blight.

I call the phone number because, you’re kidding me. Seriously? I leave a message on the guy’s voice mail because his office hours are (no kidding) 7am to 10am.

So, the guy from the City returns my call at 6:55 this morning, because that’s a reasonable time to call people. Let me put my pants on.

“Canvas is not an approved material,” “Visible from the street,” “No one has complained.”

Our driveway is awesome. We’ve even had a party or two under that awning.

Two days ago, a birthday party! (Julianna turned 10! Yay!) No one mentioned the Urban Blight caused by my carport.

But, because I know this guy is just doing his job, and after telling him that this was insane…. There’s only one place this can go:

I said to the guy on the phone, very politely, “I guess I’ll see you in court.”

He replied (honestly): “I wish you good luck.”

(Which sounds better because he has an Indian accent. Namaste.)

Doing the Dishes

I wasn’t going to put this on the blog, but…

You know how sometimes you do the 250 mile round-trip to your dead brother’s house and the Trust people say “Here”s your last chance.” They are polite and all. Business-like, but polite.

But, still… You take what you can. And, you put his fancy dishes in your dishwasher even though you know they are clean and haven’t been used in years. Since a long ago Christmas. When you were there. With him.

Welcome to my day.


Meet the newest member of the family. (Hint: Not the one in purple. She’s old hat.)

You already know her.  I'm talking about the dog.

You already know her. I’m talking about the dog.

His name is Merlin the Magician, probably because they played a trick on me. As you know, I’ve had several surgical procedures over the last few months. So, apparently, in a morphine delirium, I signed off on a Chihuahua-Pekingese mix.

He’s kinda cute, though. And, the calmest dog you could ever ask for. (Karma, finally paying us back…)

Bikini Bridge Is Falling Down

So, for about five minutes this week, I was concerned about the latest trend in young-woman-body-image issues because I have a couple of girls heading there soon. There’s, apparently, something called a Bikini Bridge. Because, too thin is never Too Thin.

A Bikini Bridge is when a woman (a girl, really) has an abdomen so thin, that her hips extend farther than her stomach when she lies down. This causes the elastic waistband of her bikini bottom to get some “air” under it, making a cross-pelvic bridge. It’s hard to explain. But here’s a picture.

I searched high and low to find a good image.  If this one isn't good enough, I can research more.

I searched high and how to find a good image. If this one isn’t good enough, I can research more.

But, here’s the best part:

A Bikini Bridge is actually NOT the latest trend in body obsession. Turns out, the whole thing was a HOAX created by some idiots on 4chan (yeah, I didn’t know what it was, either) who wanted to try to create a stir, the next “thing.”. (Apparently, 4chan it is legit because it is a .org, not a .com. So there ya go.)

The Internet gobbled up this bridge thing the other day and began spewing out how girls have given up on Thigh Gaps and are now obsessed with this ridiculousness.

But, the Bikini Bridge is fake.

Buzzfeed has a great accounting of the ploy. Buzzfeed’s Bikini Bridge

Don’t worry, your daughters are actually, really not worried about this. It’s not a thing.

Information Fact-checking. This is why you keep me around.


I have a number of yoga/Pilates/Hippie friends. Turns out, moving a quarter-inch will actually cause you to sweat and make you feel tons better..

Blah blah blah… Shoulder surgery rehab. (Welcome.)

So, my physical therapist says that I should lift my hand up.

I say: Bullshit.

She convinces we to try. My heart rate ramps up. Sweat drips from my hairline.

A quarter-inch: Ow (but in a good way.)

Hey, that feels beeter.


(But i’ll never put on yoga pants… Eww.)