Category Archives: Articles

#438: Onward; Chloe Rockwell: 2002-2018






Note: If you are suffering from grief, this show and post are for you. I hope it helps you find peace and frees you from your pain. Much love, JER.

Dear Chloe,

May 17th, 2002…a Friday night…

I was so excited to get home that night. Single and ready to mingle, got some yummy (albeit, naughty) grub in the back seat, gonna get to my swingin’ Hermosa Beach bachelor pad for some movies, maybe call that girl who gave me her number, I dunno, and….


Two silly British tourists took an illegal lefthand turn and slammed right into me. Not only did they ruin my night, they ended up suing my insurance company, claiming it was my fault. Of course, my insurance company laughed and all ended well, but boy was I pissed that night, a Friday night. I was gonna eat naughty food but it spoiled. LAME.

And if I could find them today, I’d buy them drinks for life. Okay, maybe just a few rounds, but certainly I’d thank them, even though they (or their insurance company) actually….no I don’t care. Without that mistake, no Chloe.

The next morning, I woke up in a bad mood. I went for a walk and walked past Petco. My family cat Oliver (Your uncle Oliver? Dunno) had just passed away two months prior (my late mother and I had a laugh when, through her tears, she exclaimed, “He was just too fat!”), and I thought, “Oh, what the heck, just go in and look at the kittens, cheer yourself up! No big deal! What the worst that can happen?”

So I walked in and headed to the back, where the wonderful organization, “People and Cats Living Together,” was holding cat adoptions. I entered, said hello to the lady (Sweet Lady, as I shall refer to her) running the joint, and had a look around. I came across two cages in particular; one with a Mama kitty named Samantha, and next to it, a cage with her babies. At first, it just looked like one big ball of fur, but upon closer inspection, it was 8 kittens having a nap&snuggle.

And then one little head popped out.

That’s when you spoke your first words to me, “………….meow?”


“Oh no, no you don’t,” I replied, but Sweet Lady AND you both ignored me. Sweet lady opened the cage while you crawled out of the pile hell bent on getting to her future papa.

“You wanna hold her?” Sweet Lady said.

“No, no no no no no,” I said, and Sweet Lady ignored me and handed you to me. I felt your little heart racing as you put your head on my shoulder and went to sleep.

“Oh, no no no no no no no no no…oh no…oh no,” I said.

“Oh yes,” both you and Sweet Lady replied.

That was it. Sweet Lady put a little red bow around your neck (to show that you had found your human) and then took me around Petco to chose supplies. Litter box, litter, bowls, toys, food, ect.

“This is at least a 15 year commitment, you know,” Sweet Lady said to me.

I looked at you, and you looked up at me and nuzzled your head in my neck, “You promise?”

Then we went home, little 8-week old you in a cardboard kitty carrier (your officially kitty-carrier from Grandma Laurie would come later). I took you into your first home, set the box on my bed and took a step back.

Did I just adopt a cat?



I stepped forward and opened the box.


Out you jumped and ran right under the bed. Where you stayed. All day. And night.

I called my mother, who at the time was fighting a losing battle with ALS, and said, “Hey Ma…guess what? I got a little roommate.”


That felt good.

The next morning, I woke up, and you were nowhere to be found. I looked and looked… no dice. How did you…did you….wait….where is the one place I didn’t look?

That’s right, my sock drawer. While I was sawing logs that first night in your forever home, you decided to CRAWL UP MY DRESSER AND TAKE A SNOOZE IN THE FRIGGIN’ SOCK DRAWER. Sock sock sock sock kitty sock sock sock.

I was impressed. Golf clap, Chlo.

Gradually, you warmed up to me, and before I knew it, I could not sit down without you, Mrs Bigglesworth, taking your rightful spot. The first time I spent the night away from your lair, the next morning, you came running in from the bedroom YELLING, “WHERE THE HELL WERE YOU?”

That’s cats for you.

7 months later, I took you home with me for Christmas. Why? Oliver, bless his heart, used to love to open presents under the tree. That was his tradition. Chew chew chew. He last did that in December of 2001. Now it was December 2002. My mother says to me, “Jordan, I just want you know how much I appreciate having a kitty home for XMAS.” She points under the tree, and there is you, picking up the baton from Oliver, chewing on presents.

From that moment on, you were duh Chlo. It wasn’t always easy, what with living 3000 miles away from the people who cared for me the most, and all I had was my cat, and my friends. I dated, I brought girlfriends home. Some were friendly, some were not. Indeed, one thing I learned is that I needed to find an, “off,” switch to the kitty talk. I also was certain to put, “I HAVE A CAT,” on my dating profiles to weed out the ladies who were allergic. I was told on more than one occasion that you brought out my tender side.

And as you grew, so did I. I went from wanna-be screenwriter, to bartender and business school student, to cigar seller, podcaster, and back to writer. I found the love of my life and got a dog (Chewbacca!). I found my forever home, friends for life. I matured, made peace with some many elements of my past and figured out where I want to go, and how I want to continue growing (kindness, help others, never give up).

And all the while, you, Madame Bigglesworth yourself, were right by my side.You even ended up on the wonderful, “My Cat From Hell.” For the record, folks, Jackson Galaxy is the real deal. He is every bit as sweet as he appears on camera. Him and his crew were lovely and it was a great experience.

One thing I forgot to mention.

That same Christmas in 2002, I walked into the living room where you were purring in your grandma’s lap. My mother was unable to walk at that point due to ALS progressing (suck it, ALS), but she petted you, saying, “Please take care of my little boy for me.”

All this time, I had it wrong. All this time, I thought you were my baby.

Nope. I was YOUR baby. I hadn’t been taking care of you all these years, you have been taking care of me.







You were diagnosed with cancer a year ago. No wait, OVER a year ago. October, 2017. My wife was 7 months in with our son Jack, and the oncologist gave you a month without treatment, maybe two. We decided to do light treatment to go after the tumor on your tail, and the oncologist gave you 6 to 9 months at most. I just wanted you to meet Jack, and pass the baton, just like my mother once passed the baton to you.

As you can see, mission accomplished. Baton passed.





And we’ve been playing with house money for over a year. Every day was a gift.





Every moment was cherished. That was the final lesson you taught me. You saved the best for last.

Every day above ground is a gift that should never be taken for granted.

The tumor on your tail grew, one showed up in your mouth, they both grew and grew, and last week, when we realized that you could no longer swallow food, it was time.

I had to do the right thing. I had to be in the room when the time came. I would not be a coward, and I would set an example for Jack. Just as my late father, 31 years ago, took our dog Columbo to the vet for his final ride, so too should I do the same for you.

We spent last Tuesday together doing what we always loved to do; watch movies together. “Up,” (best film of all time), “Steve Jobs,” (underrated and wonderful), and finally, the last film, “The Shining.” Why that one? Because we felt like it! It’s Kubrick at his creepiest! Amazing picture! You purred during the scary parts. Of course you did.

After the 3rd picture, a few glasses of scotch, pile of Chinese food and a cheesesteak, I passed out on the couch with you on my chest. Woke up 3 hours later at 1:30am. I knew this was going to be our final snuggle, and said to myself, “Sleep, stay away, no matter, whatever happens, happens.”

I stayed awake as we cuddled and while I have no memory of what I said, I know how I felt; feeling peace as you gave me courage to do the right thing.

The right thing by you.

The right thing. To end your suffering.

The sun came up and I was still scared, but remembered Rudyard Kiplings, “If.”

Do the right thing by you, and I’d evolve.

I gathered you into your kitty carrier, as Jack and Chewbacca said goodbye.

Jack saying goodbye




The final shot I ever took of Chloe








And off we went to the vet. Your final ride.

Once we got to the room, our wonderful vet took you to the back while I recited, “If,” followed by the Lord’s Prayer. Then the Vet brought you back with the IV in your arm, saying, “She took a slash at one of our techs.” That’s my girl! A fighter until the end.

As the final injections went in, “Battle Hymn of the Republic,” came tumbling out. As the light left your eyes, though tears streamed down mine and the SNGal’s faces, your courage gave us love.

Then you were gone.

I kissed your head, said, “God bless you, I love you, thank you for everything, my queen.”

And your spirit began its forever watch over my family.

Thank you, Chloe, for everything.

Thank you for being there for me, my furry little family member, when I had no family out here.

Thank you for teaching me that the world does not run on my feelings.

Thank you for the endless purring, meows, hisses (yes hisses!) cuddles, and love.

Thank you for your kindness to the ladies I dated that liked you, and for ignoring the ones who weren’t so kind.

Thank you for helping to show me that Julie was, and is, the love of my life. All the pictures of the two of you napping together was enough of a hint. Like this one:






Goodbye, my queen. I will never forget you.


Your Baby Boy, Jordan


#416: Dunkirk, Utah Beach, USS Maine, and no this is not a History podcast

Tonight, I wax poetic about:

  • Knowing when to treat, when to fight, and when to accept surrender in life.
  • My patreon page, and how I’m telling you all about it now in order to motivate me to get it up and running.
  • A nice parental upgrade I gave myself recently with Jack
  • A story about Tom Petty that I liked so much
  • A terrible friend zone story has made the rounds and I have some thoughts

And more!

Thanks for listening.

Go For it

First, the story of Pinocchio, from wikipedia:

Jiminy Cricket explains that he is going to tell a story of a wish coming true. His story begins in the workshop of a woodworker named Geppetto. Jiminy watches as Geppetto finishes work on a wooden marionette whom he names Pinocchio. Before falling asleep, Geppetto makes a wish on a star that Pinocchio be a real boy. During the night, a Blue Fairy visits the workshop and brings Pinocchio to life, although he still remains a puppet. She informs him that if he proves himself brave, truthful, and unselfish, he will become a real boy, and assigns Jiminy to be his conscience.

Well, no turning back now.

A couple of things:

1) This is the incredible Valentina Lisitsa playing my favorite piece of classic music ever, Franz Liszt’s Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2. I saw, “Who Framed Roger Rabbit, when I was 11 and was smitten with that dueling piano scene. And I hate dueling pianos.

2) Seriously. I hate dueling pianos. “SUH—WEET Car-OH-LIN….” shut it.

2.5) Just kidding, folks. Nothing but love to the wonderful musicians who entertain the masses every weekend. And much love to Neil Diamond too.

3) About 2 years ago, I decided to teach myself this piece. I made it up to the fun, “Roger Rabbit” section…and got lazy. My Dad died, writing picked up, had a baby…. I have no one to blame but myself.

4) Speaking of Jack, with everything I do, I am setting an example for him. And one big example that I must teach him is that when you start something, you finish it. Period. You do not give up when it gets hard. You don’t walk away from your commitments. You make changes, adjust, but most of all, you never give up.

5) So. Back at it. 20 minutes a day, every day, usually when my son is chilling out waiting for his evening meal. I have already found spots that I will need help with, and after I get through the entire piece on my own, I will hire a piano teacher to help me smooth out the cracks. Another lesson; seek help, seek mentors, for there is no shame in asking for help because it is in your best interests and shows humility.

6) Will I earn the right to have that dude from, “Whiplash,” tell me, “Good job!”?

Maybe. Maybe.

And back to Pinocchio: Wish upon a star for your dreams. Then you have to do the work to get there. You will fail. A lot. But you keep going. Keep going.

Keep going.

I will never play as well as Ms. Lisitsa. But I don’t have to.

I just have to try.

Have a great weekend, everyone.


Dealing with Anger the Rick Carson Way

Simply notice.

That I am learning this lesson not only from meditation and therapy, but from Rick Carson’s wonderful book, “Taming Your Gremlin,” is a blessing; the more people take this attitude, in my opinion, the better off we’ll all be.

With that in mind, I decided to actually do the work instead of skipping through it, as I have done with many other books (not all, of course, like the War of Art). Rick asks the reader to do a thought experiment with ANGER. He notes:

“Acknowledging  your beliefs and/or habits does not require one to be cautious. Doing so does not mean that you need to change anything. Of course, your gremlin will have you judge your responses. Instead, simply notice and relax.

Here are my results (questions in bold):

1. I imagine that those who know me well would say that when I am angry I yell, boil up with rage. Throw imaginary punches. Say the wrong thing. Say or do something I will regret later.

2. When I’m angry with someone I know well, I tend to either bottle it up, or yell.

3. When I’m angry with someone I don’t know well, I tend to bottle it up.

4. If I suspect someone is angry with me, I feel…it depends. Scared, amused. But most of the time, guilty and I tend to…it depends. If I’m scared, back off, if I’m amused, mock, and the times I’m guilty, try to make amends.

5. A recent time I felt angry at another person was when a drunk idiot hit on my wife, right in front of me, ‘If you weren’t married, I’d try to hook up with you.’

6. At that time, I chose to say nothing. I let it go. I didn’t escalate. “He was drunk,” was my excuse not to break this shithead’s jaw.

7. As I remember that experience now, I notice that I am angry at myself for not standing up for my wife, even though she and another female friend told me that I did the right thing.

8. If I had allowed my anger to be reflected in my voice and my words in a manner that was absolutely uncensored, I imagine that I would have put my finger in his face and threatened to beat the shit out of him. However, that is my monkey brain talking, and I would regret it. Instead, ideally, I would downshift that into the action of getting in between him and my wife and say, gently but firmly, “Alright, buddy, That’s enough.” There was a bouncer nearby (that I was actually friendly with; poor guy spent most of his shift stopping people from having sex in the hot tub(s), and the last thing I would want to do is give him another headache.

9. Then I think I would have felt like I stood up for my wife and myself without going neither alpha nor beta. Gamma. While it is a fact that my wife is an independent woman, can take care of herself and will always tell me if I need to step in, it still infuriated me. Not at the drunk moron, but at myself.

As for 10 and 11, my parents were wonderful people, and aren’t here to defend themselves. They were loving, devoted, and just as human as the rest of us. Hence, to that last point, I’ll leave it be. No parents are perfect, and I am certainly not nor will I be with Jack. They did the best they could, and they were the best I could hope for.

You Can Do Anything: The Philadelphia Eagles are Super Bowl Champions

Some say you are either and optimist, or a pessimist. It has much to do with your DNA mix as it does with the long-form equation that is your life experience. Me? I’m about an 80/20 split of optimism to pessimism, but for my chosen NFL football team, the Philadelphia Eagles (or rather, they chose me), until last Sunday, you could flip those numbers.

Not anymore.

I was never a football fan until my late father, John Richard Rockwell, brought my brother and I to Veterans Stadium on December 22, 1991 to see my (now) beloved Philadelphia Eagles play the Washington Redskins. At the time, the Eagles would finish the season 10-6, but they were out of playoff contention. We knew that going in.

It didn’t matter. We had the best time in the world. The game was close but the Eagles pulled out a W. I had never had that jock jams song before (The Hey Song). It fired up the whole crowd of Eagles fanatics. And I’ll never forget a certain Defensive Tackle waving his arms up and down, encouraging the crowd to encourage the team to stop the Redskin’s incredible offense. That man was Jerome Brown, #99, and sadly, he was killed in a car accident the following June in his hometown of Brooksville, Florida. This would be the last game of his life.
Only saw him once and I’ll never forget him

However, two things happened. I became a fan for life, and I would never forget Jerome.

The following fall, my freshman year of high school, my late mother bought me a Philadelphia Eagles jacket that I still have in my closet to this day. Completely coincidently, she bought me said-jacket on a Monday night, the same night as Monday Night Football, the MNF in which the Eagles beat the Dallas Cowboys, our bitter rival. Various classmates gave me a hard time the next day with quotes like, “Oh, you’re just wearing that because they won.” My response, “Yes, I got my Mom to drive me back to mall at 11 o’clock at night, convinced the sporting goods store to open back up so that I could get a jacket. Got it.”

Anyway, those of us citizens of Eagles Nation have always been given a hard time by opposing fans. But that’s not the worst thing. My love of Philadelphia Eagles began right around the time that my pure unadulaterated hatred of not the Dallas Cowboys, not their fans from Texas, but their fair-weather fans from elsewhere who jumped on the bandwagon during the Troy Aikman era. Like this moron in my high school who said, upon seeing my jacket, “EAGLES SUCK.”

“Okay, who is your team?”


Of course, he never step foot in Dallas. At least I’m guessing that’s true.

Fire ahead to 2008. I had given up on my writing career, devolved back into the coward I was growing up. While attending business school, I took a job as a bartender in Westwood, CA at a place called Philly West. There, I grew as a person and began to gain back my confidence. I learned the kind of humility that one can only learn working in the service industry. Everyone should do this at least once in their lives to see what it’s like and get a lesson in empathy you will never forget, especially when you deal with human beings who have turned too many times to alcohol for comfort.

And, did I say I was a fan of the Eagles? While working at Philly West, bartending every single Eagles game for the 2009-2010 season, I got went from a regular fan to a radicalized one. Don’t know why, don’t know how, don’t care. What’s done is done.

My chosen profession of writing and my unchosen fandom both have been called, “A Debt of Honor.” Truth be told, I didn’t chose either one of these; they chose me. It hasn’t been easy, but I had all of this history in mind when I sat down at Philly West last Sunday, February 4th, to face the New England Patriots. I rolled up 2 hours early, a 40-year old grown man in a jersey. Oh wait, which jersey? This one:

IMG_0674 2

When I became radicalized, I bought that in Philadelphia while visiting friends. They didn’t have any McNabb shirts at the store I bought it from, but they did have that one, and instantly, that was the jersey for me. “Bring it Home for Jerome,” the saying goes.

At Philly West on Super Bowl Sunday, I sat down at the bar. They had a reserved spot just for me:


While I scarfed down a delicious chicken cheesesteak and cheese fries, I thought about all of the loss and disappointment. All of the taunts and insults. The insults to the fandom that we have, in some ways, earned (piss off SANTA CLAUS WAS DRUNK!). I thought about our heartbreaking loss in Super Bowl XXXIX to, that’s right, Tom Brady and the New England Patriots. 4 more goddamn points and we would have won. A bridge too far. It hurt, still did (not anymore!). I thought about the Andy Reid years with McNabb, how we would come SO CLOSE, but never quite get it done. Oh, the Chip Kelly disaster and Howie getting kicked upstairs. Will we ever get a break? And I thought about my late Dad, who never got to see the Eagles win the big one.

It ain’t easy being an Eagles fan. It’s really not easy being a writer. I thought about all the people, such as myself, who still haven’t “made it,” yet in our chosen profession of our dreams. I wondered about all the people who got so close to success, but gave up. Was that me? Damn right it was. And now I’m 40. I’m done, right? Done. At least I have the Eagles…oh wait.

We had embraced our underdog status all throughout the season (especially when we lost Carson Wentz), but every single member of Eagles Nation was shitting bricks. Please, football gods, let us have this.

They eventually would do just that. By now, you know what happened. A miracle occured in Minneapolis.

Nick Foles brought the city of Philadelphia the Lombardi trophy, and that’s when it hit me; you can accomplish anything. Wait, anything? Not exactly. We’ll get to that.

Back to the miracle. Against all odds, we have a ring with a backup QB who broke his collarbone four years ago, and got traded, benched, and almost retired. He was done. The love of the game was gone. Then he went on a vision quest of sorts with his brother-in-law, spoke with his wife, and prayed to God. Whatever was said on that trip isn’t for us to know. It doesn’t matter. He came back, first to Kansas City under Andy Reid, then returned to Philadelphia as a backup QB to the up-and-coming franchise QB Carson Wentz. In Wentz, we believed (and still do) that we have found our guy in Carson.

In addition to being a wonderful man on and off the field, he brought us win after win, and we were 10-2 when we came to Los Angeles to play the Rams.

Where horror struck us right in the nuts.

My son was born on December 1st, and with a newborn at home, I had an excuse not to go to the Coliseum to see the birds. I was nervous about the Rams (they were good this year) but never thought…wait…WHAT????

The crunch:

Foles came in and finished the game for us, securing a post-season spot. But me, like everyone in Eagles Nation, was…a deer in the headlights of life.

I sat in my backyard and stared at the wall. We’re done, we’re done…please, football gods, please let it just be a sprained ankle or something.

The next morning, all of us waiting for Coach Pederson’s press conference. Then he arrived. Stoic, mature, fearless and without an ounce of bullshit, he came right out with it; torn ACL. Out for a year.

Season over.

We’re done, we all thought, we’re absolutely done.

When my head hit the pillow that night, I asked myself, why do I care so much? Good question. I’m reminded of a line from 2005’s, “Fever Pitch,” in which a little boy asks Red Sox super-fan Jimmy Fallon, “You love the Red Sox…have they ever loved you back?”

The answer is, of course, no, they haven’t. They can’t. My wife, my son, my dog, my cat, they love me back. But the Eagles? Nope nope nope. Yet we still love our teams? Why? Working on it. Sense of community? Inspiration? Sure, but boy does it hurt to see them lose.

We in Eagles Nation are a pessimestic bunch for a reason. And we thought, that’s it. Done. No one believed in us. Truth be told, neither did we. It just wasn’t in the cards for us to ever get a break. As Hudson said, game over man, game over.

But then this happened, which occured right after the Eagles clinched a playoff spot in Los Angeles:

Doug and Macolm. It’s in our hands. We wanted to take business for ourselves. We’re playing for something bigger now, boys, Dig in dig in for the next few weeks. Carson being out, that sucks, but dig this. We set this up, whoever is in this room, this is who we ride with; We all we got, we all we need. You know what’s in our minds. No excuses.

We were not done.

Because we had a leader in Coach Pederson, a leader in Malcolm Jenkins, and it turns out, we never really knew Nick Foles until the playoffs. We underestimated him. I certainly did. I was wrong.

Philadelphia. The city of my literal birth (45th and Market) and my spiritual birth (University of Pennsylvania Class of 2000). We don’t stand for violence, though it happens. We don’t stand for throwing snowballs or eating horse poop (damn it). Outsiders give us a hard time in that our biggest sports hero is fictional. Of course, they miss the point and don’t get what really matters; our spirit. It is Rocky; WE ARE ALL ROCKY. What do we stand for?


“Let me tell you something you already know. The world ain’t all sunshine and rainbows. It’s a very mean and nasty place and I don’t care how tough you are it will beat you to your knees and keep you there permanently if you let it. You, me, or nobody is gonna hit as hard as life. But it ain’t about how hard ya hit. It’s about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward. How much you can take and keep moving forward. That’s how winning is done! Now if you know what you’re worth then go out and get what you’re worth. But ya gotta be willing to take the hits, and not pointing fingers saying you ain’t where you wanna be because of him, or her, or anybody! Cowards do that and that ain’t you! You’re better than that!”

The Eagles, and us fans, eventually embraced our underdog status:

Next Man Up. Persevernace. Grit. Never. Give up.

From friends and fans from other teams (oddly enough, many from the Ft. Worth area) cries of, “One and out,” and, “No chance,” came flooding our way. And when they actually won, the dismissive quips came flooding in. You cheated (shut up). The refs let you have it (prove it). You only won because the refs gave you a break (Hey assholes, we won with a backup QB WHILE missing 6 core players. Suck on that).

About those dismissive comments: they do it because it’s easier for them to right them off. It makes them feel happier in the moment, but not in the long run. They don’t see that because they’re in pain and feel that if they can knock you down, the pain will go away.

They make excuses.

I wasn’t suprised that they would write us off before and after the game, and yet…but yet…the team…reminded me…


Never “listen” to your critics. At least, don’t listen to them in the way they want you to. Don’t listen to them on their terms; convert it to how it helps you on your terms. Your enemies can be your adversaries and only such, or they can also be your teacher. Your choice. The Eagles, with all the setbacks and accidents of the seasons, certainly made the right one, and that is why the 2017 Eagles are one of the best teachers…the good kind…I’ve ever seen.

You can accomplish anything. Within reason, that is; if you are 5’7’’ and want to be 6’10’’, that ain’t happening.

But with most things in life; how many would-be champions, filmmakers, star ball players, astronauts, SEALS, you name it, have we been deprived of because they gave up? Because they couldn’t go the extra mile?

You’re too old.

You’re not good enough.

They don’t want you.


Which is worse, hearing that from someone else, or from your internal gremlin?

You tell me.

Man alive, I’ve never felt more fired up in my life. I’m 40 years old and I’m not as successful as I want to be. And it’s 100% my fault. I was a coward. Not anymore. The Philadelphia Eagles are Super Bowl Champions. With Nick Foles. As Super Bowl MVP.

We can do anything. That may not be literally true, but don’t tell your gremlin that.

We can end the divide between men and women and bring true equality without mysogyny or misandrism; the Eagles are Super Bowl Champions.

We get our nation out of debt, stop war, we can do anything; the Eagles are Super Bowl Champions. It’s in our grasp.

Anything, if we can touch it, we can grab it. I can get my books published and become a successful author, voice over actor, and podcast host.

I can get weight down to my goal and keep it there, permanently. I can finally become a true gentleman. I can get my orange belt, then my green belt, blue, brown…and black belt before I turn 50.

I can be the best husband and father on the planet, a title that we can all equally share together, fellas.

We can do it.

We can do anything.

Fly Eagles Fly.

Much love, and good luck,


The Top 5 things to look for in a Long Term Relationship

Me and my Wookie. No reasons. Everyone likes the dog.
Me and my Wookie. No reasons. Everyone likes the dog.

NOTE: I’m knee-deep in baby love…and poop…and I couldn’t be happier. I earned the right to get peed on by my 15-day-old son by never settling, rather, I stumbled upon these 5 rules when I stumbled upon the love of my life. 

NOTE: Thick into the weeds, things get gender-specific, but the big 5 bullet points are universal. Enjoy! -JER

For the past year or so on the show, I’ve repeated something over, and over…and over…and maybe I should put it in writing.

The Top 5 things to look for in a Long-Term Relationship

The short version is:

5) Physical attraction

4) Things in Common/Values in Common & No Deal Breakers

3) They’re Smart

2) They’re Kind

1) They’re Sane

5) Physical Attraction

As men and women go, this varies a bit; men tend to, “fall in love,” with their eyes, while women tend to do so with their ears. That said, it doesn’t matter that the value of looks follows the law of finishing returns. And it also doesn’t matter that this one goes without saying.

4) Things in Common/Values in Common & No Deal Breakers

Hear me loud and clear:

If you have a deep-seeded belief and your love interest does not, or has the opposite belief, walk away.

There is no getting around this, and many divorces could have been avoided if people followed this rule (as well as the other ones!). Other articles will get into why a desperation-mind set is a recipe for disaster, why you cannot tell if you love someone for at least six months, and many other picadillos that drive me up the wall (because I did them myself back when I didn’t know any better). But for now, this rule is an attempt to quantify the unquantifable, to put words to that special, “thing,” that made you decide not to call that guy back after two decent dates.

Things in Common

Yes, fellas, she has huge boobs, red lips and you visit Valhalla every time you make sweet love down by the fire. But your conversations just..go..nowhere. She talks about her stupid friend Becky and how she can’t stand her. Read this over and over, fellas; you will get bored of sleeping with her. AGAIN. You will get bored having sex with her.

So many dumbass bros are so happy to have a hottie on their arm that they put a ring on it.

Ladies, you aren’t immune to this either. You got the high school quarterback, and…

No amount of monkey business from barely-employed losers at your high school reunion are going to change the fact that you married the wrong person because you thought you knew him, and you didn’t. You will not run out of things to talk about as long as your values stay the same and your relationship has a solid foundation of friendship. If you don’t have both of those, use birth control. Please.

My wife and I love Disneyland, love most of the same television shows (but not all), love Las Vegas, wine country and golf. We love old-timey jazz and get giddy about the new Star Wars movie every year in equal amounts of enthusiasm. We get equal joy out of staying in and cooking and the occasional quiet night out. We adore our dog, love each other’s friends (mostly), and most of all, gain the greatest pleasure holding our newborn son.

Let’s talk age; although my wife is 7 years younger than me, we are both on the same page of life, and that one is crucial too. People who think age is a state off mind as a reason to date someone three times their age in order to exercise the Parental-Abandonment demons are hopelessly misguided, and they miss the point; it’s not so much age, but what age tends to correlate with (but not cause) is station in life. You want the same things at the same time.

Settle for nothing else. Never settle. Pilgrims settle. You’re not a pilgrim.

Values In Common/No Deal Breakers

If you are a religious Christian, stay off of J-Date. If you are an pro-life activist, you aren’t going to talk a left-wing feminist into seeing things your way over martinis. If you think the Earth is 6,000 years old, stick to someone who shares your sincere beliefs that the Grand Canyon was formed by Noah’s flood.

While we’re at it, if you’re dating online (and if you aren’t, guess what? YOU’RE THE FREAK NOW!) put your values and deal-breakers up front. Don’t swipe right if you hate guns and the dude has a hunting rifle in his hands (though, if his finger is on the trigger, swipe right, message him, “FINGER OFF THE TRIGGER,” then delete him).

You are not James Carville and Mary Matalin, and besides, they are the exception to the rule that proves it (they are both Catholic, they have that in common, plus they love to argue. Do you? Really?). Everyone thinks that they are the exception to the rule. You must operate under the the (correct) notion that you are not special. You will not win the lottery. The house always wins in Vegas; they don’t build those giant (awesome) monstrosities on the strip because they might win. The same principle applies. Reality on realities terms.

My wife and I are both non-religious and share similar and comparable political thought. We follow the golden rule and treat each other as we would want the other to treat us. Her dreams of life and mine are compatible, but they are not always the same; I strive to be a writer, voice-over actor and podcast host; she wants to start a business and someday raise horses. We both want to build a house that we will some day die in. We disagree on some matter of divorce law and culture, but respect each other, agree to disagree where we must, and change the conversation.

3) They’re Smart

Perhaps a better way of putting this is that they share your level of intelligence. I have dated dumb girls, and I have dated high-IQ brainiacs. Neither of them worked. The former meant I had nothing in common with them except for bedroom antics, and the latter? Well, full disclosure; I’m rolling the dice that my wife is smarter than I am. Not only am I okay with that, I love it, as a matter of fact. But fellas, you will not have a long-term happy relationship if she’s a do-do-head. I don’t care if she looks like Angelina Jolie. And ladies, he may look like Brad Pitt, but…stop it you will get bored. Even the two of them got bored with each other eventually. You do not want to breed with a dummy. You won’t be happy, and Mike Judge’s, “Idiocracy,” will happen:

2) They’re Kind

You know what sucks, fellas? Having the woman you married and once loved call you a, “f—king loser,” even though all you wanted to do was spend some time with your best friend Dave who you haven’t seen in over a year because your witch of a wife demands all of your time and either doesn’t give a damn about your feelings, or worse, can’t.

You know what also sucks, ladies? When that silverback gorilla that you couldn’t resist 3 year years ago is beating the ever-loving-crap out of out of you while cheating on you and you just sink further and further into denial and escalation of commitment (I can’t quit now, I have so much invested!).

Ladies, Gentlemen, it’s not men vs women. It’s all of us decent human beings against the abusers, physical and otherwise.

I have dated some truly horrible human beings and all I can tell you is that they make me grateful to be married to the SNGal and even more grateful that I didn’t knock any of them up. Sweet beautiful Jesus, thank God for birth control.

Kindness means that they will stand up for themselves and not take any of your crap when you screw up, but show compassion and love when you are emotionally vulnerable.

They don’t hit you, and for the love of god, their default setting in conflict isn’t to f—king yell at you. There’s no violence, and yelling, if at all, is a rare occurrence. If yelling occurs, there are consequences; you teach people how to treat you and you must always teach people how not to treat you as well.

1) They’re Sane

Finally, the most important quality in a human being that towers above all the others: Sanity.

My wife will march into a room and say, “Jordan, I need praise for all the housework I did today.” She says this calmly and gently. She doesn’t do the following:

Me: “Honey, what’s wrong?”

Her: (turns away), “Nothing.”

Ladies we f—king hate that.

John Mulaney agrees re: dating jewish women, for example. This goyem here agrees, and thinks our jewish sisters are on to something that the rest of us should take on!

Oh my god you have no idea of the happy daze I walked in after I realized that the SNGal (a shiksa, but no matter)  was the most sane individual I had ever had the pleasure of dating. Ladies, your relationship stock will SKY-ROCKET in your late 20’s (right when you should be thinking about long-term prospects anyway, how about that?) and attract the right man for you who will appreciate it.

If you are NOT sane…I can’t help you. But if you are sane, and you are reading this, oh my lord, if you knowingly marry a crazy person, I will personally come to your house and throw you into a volcano. I’ll be doing you a favor. It’ll be less painful and heaven awaits.

They don’t go through your phone assuming that you cheated on them because their last 3 boyfriends cheated on them and therefor you will too. They trust you. They know that if you cheat on them, that’s not a reflection of them.

They don’t isolate you from your friends and family.

Everything is not, “a fight,” if there is disagreement.

If you want to go home instead of stay at their apartment, they don’t threaten to kill you or boil your bunny.

They don’t actually try to kill you.

Yeah, that last one is pretty important.

So, to sum up, never settle for anyone who isn’t attractive, doesn’t share crucial values, isn’t smart, nice, and sane. You must have all five, especially the last part.

And this is all about them. What about YOU?

We’ll get to that.



I use my marriage as an example because, for no other reason, so far, so good. Married for 4, together for 7 and change, we both understand that there is no resting on laurels in a relationship. Beyond the amount of time that has passed since November 18, 2010, I have no idea what I’m talking about. I do not mean to suggest otherwise.  

Every day is a choice to make. Every moment is one to improve upon the last. As we go forward every day, I don’t win, she doesn’t win, the marriage wins.

Don’t Be THAT Guy: The Joy Killer

This is the first in what I hope will be several attempts of mine to blog more often, maybe even build a platform for my writing partner Ashley Collins and I; we landed an agent for our book recently, but much more work need to be done! One step at a time. Once a week is better than no times a week, isn’t it? Also, perfect being the enemy of good, no more procrastinating.

You’ve heard this before; don’t be THAT guy. What does it mean to be THAT guy?

Generally speaking, it’s someone who upsets our social order. Depending on where you are from, this could mean different things to different cultures. For example, dropping a C-bomb in America is a very different thing from dropping one in England.

But here across the pond?

That guy who is the loudest moron at Thanksgiving dinner who won’t shut the f—k up about politics (Type-A personalities, this is you). That guy who texts during a movie. That guy who pisses on the toilet seat.  And so on.

Today’s post, however, and in most other, “DBTG,” posts, I’m going to ask you to not be this guy because I’ve been this guy. When you turn 40 (at least when I did), you start looking back. It’s the half way point. You look back not to wish you could go back and change things (waste of time and energy), but to learn from your mistakes, and I made a lot.

In fact, the day before my son was born, I made a mistake for the final time…I hope.

I was THAT guy who when someone tells me that they like something, I have to open my big fat mouth and explain why it sucks, thus taking away their pleasure. The Joy Killer. That was me. It’s rude, it’s narcissistic, and it’s wrong.

Example: Last Christmas, my wife and my sister-in-law are in the living room watching, that’s right, “Love, Actually.”

“UGG!” I moan as I shuffle into the room, “This again? You know this movie has nothing to do with actual love, right?”

Both ladies said something along the lines of, “Piss off, Jordan,” and went back to watching Bill Nighy and his manager get drunk and watch porn. I walked away with my tail between my legs. The fact that this article exists doesn’t matter. I had no right to do that.

But, that wasn’t enough to convince me that I was wrong. The birth of my son did the trick.

Thursday morning, November 30th, my wife is in (what we thought was going to be) the delivery room experiencing the early stages of labor. Our wonderful Doula Yana by my wife’s side, my baby-mama was actually enjoying herself (the major contractions hadn’t started yet). Yana puts on the song, “Beautiful Boy, Darling Boy,” by John Lennon.

I hear this, and believe or not, kept my big fat trap shut at first. I know, hard to believe.

Julie and Yana are both hold black belts in empathy for the men in their lives, and both inquired of my discomfort.

“John Lennon abandoned his son, Julian.”

I have an allergic reaction to parents who abandon their children, and to step-parents who divide and conquer. My late father, after he and my mother split up, never stopped letting my brother and I know that we were number 1. Our parents are gone but our step-parents remain in our lives in a close and loving way. I have examples to follow. Other people aren’t so lucky.

No, Yoko Ono did not break up the Beatles (they broke themselves up just fine) but she did drive a wedge between John and his relatives, or at least it’s alleged.

Irrelevant. I just couldn’t let them enjoy the moment because FEELINGS.

However, with the guidance of both my wife and doula, I was to finally poke a hole in one of my demons. John Lennon was a very complicated man with a beautiful but tortured soul who apparently never knew his father. He was in a lot of pain. Through that different lens, I saw him in a different light. And then?

Three days later, after our son was born, my wife and I played, “Beautiful Boy,” with our son and we both burst into tears.

We’ve played it every day at least three times since. As I typed this, I just had a little dance with Jack singing the words to him; I have the lyrics almost memorized. It’s one of the most lovely songs I’ve ever heard, and it’s a perfect representation of how my wife and I feel about our little boy.

I am grateful for Julie and Yana who set me straight and helped me wake up a little bit. You are entitled to your feelings. You are not, however, morally entitled to express them in any way you see fit. Other people matter. It is your obligation to consider their feelings. Not be ruled by them, of course, but at least consider them. When it comes to enjoying art, I don’t care if it’s the Pussycat Dolls, let people have their pleasures. Keep your negativity to yourself.

Hemingway defined courage as grace under pressure. When you look back at all of your historical heroes, did they complain and make it all about them? No, they had problems and they worked to either accept them, or solve them. Like adults. If they can do that, then you can put up with a silly British rom-com that actually has some charm in spite of its flaws, let alone a sublime song about a father’s love for his son.

Please, don’t be that guy. I will never be that guy again. Until then, Enjoy this wonderful song that gives, “Imagine,” a run for it’s money in terms of sheer musical bliss.


#390: If It Hurts You, I Don’t Want It

Good evening! Tonight, I ramble from a boys trip in Sin City (last one before I hunker down with the SNGal and commence, “Operation Nesting,” for the arrival of our son) of how you should actually hope for difficulty in life, in relationships, and in life. Enjoy!

Advice For Ladies: SAY WHAT’S ON YOUR MIND

Courtesy of, “”









The following exchange happened, oh, I dunno, 45 bah-jillions times before I met my wife:

Me: Honey, what’s wrong?

Her: (shuffles) Nothing.

Me: Are you sure?

Her: Yes, I’m sure. (looks away). Nothing is wrong.

Me: Really?

Her: Yes really.

That goes on for an hour. Sometimes longer.  I spin in circles while she does something passive-aggressive. Calls an ex-boyfriend. Eats ice cream, then throws it up. Poops with the door open, whatever.

Then, an argument occurs that, on the surface, appears to be about who didn’t do the dishes, but is actually about her jealousy of me having female friends.

I would estimate that 99.9999999999% of my relationships festered into a cluster-f–k demise in no small part due to this kind of behavior. No, I was not perfect (far from it) but I’m just giving you my point of view, ladies, from the other side.

However, I was about 6 months into dating the woman I am now married to when the following occurred:

Julie (marches into living room): Jordan, can I talk to you for a second? I know you’re watching the game…oh, I’ll wait for Chris Tillman to blow it again.

Jordan: Thanks (Tillman gives up 6 runs at the bottom of the 2nd, and the inning mercifully ends). What’s up, babe?”

Julie: Well, the thing is, we are having a party tonight and I did all the shopping, and did all the dishes…I just feel like I didn’t get enough praise for that.

Jordan: Oh. You’re absolutely right, babe. I’m sorry. I really appreciate you doing all the hard work. I apologize.

This went on for a year and a half. We would have a problem of some kind that I wasn’t aware of, and Julie would calmly explain it to me. Then, one day, it dawned on me…no woman I have ever met has done this before.

No passive-aggressive nonsense. No playing of games. Straight talk. To the point.

She will actually march into a room and tell me in clear and concise language what is on her mind. No yelling. NO YELLING.

Whether she is correct in seeking praise is irrelevant (she is). What matters is that she is a black belt at communication. And, “miscommunication,” is uttered as a reason for divorce just as much as, “irreconcilable differences.”

Ladies, do you have any idea of how awesome this is??? I almost married her on the spot. Of course, she already had an engagement ring on that I had given her, so I was covered.

If you have a problem, but you can’t find the words, take a breather. Go for a walk.  Better yet, if he asks you what’s wrong, say, “I can’t quite find the words yet, I need to think about it, and I will get back to you, okay?”

It is so nice to be married to a woman who is nice as well as sane.

Idiocracy Alert: People who Text in Movies






The wonderful picture above (just a teaser) can be found here. Well done, Oatmeal!

AMC Century City Multiplex, October 9, 2014, 11:30AM

My wife just went out of town for the weekend. Part of me was looking forward to being able to stay up late and watch horror movies. The other part of me freaked out a bit. After all, who is going to have breakfast with me and ask for back rubs? I love my alone time but I also love the SNGal. Oh well. I think that missing her but loving my boy-time is a good mix for a long-term marriage. No worries; besides, she’ll be back in time for game 4 of the ALCS (Go Orioles!)

Anyway, after dropping her off at the airport, I headed over to a local multiplex to take in a screening of, “Gone Girl.”







This is me before the screening, both a little sad because I miss my Mrs, but also…because I was going to the movies.

Where, for the past 5 years (I’m not embellishing) at every single screening I’ve ever attended, some asshat starts texting in the middle of the movie. Granted, I was getting paid to see this film, but still, it was a film I wanted to see, and ended up loving it.

But a funny thing happened during the screening that literally has not happened to me since W was President. The lights dimmed and 7,234,248 trailers followed (because we all LOVE trailers and having all the major plot points spoiled, right idiots?), I got anxious. I looked around as a few people facebooked and instagramed. I thought it would be a matter of time.

However, as Ben Affleck described removing his wife’s skull…and as he gets home to discover that she’s gone…and the truth comes out…and hour goes by…and then the whole movie…

No one texted. No one talked. Everyone was super polite! We all laughed together, gasped together, we all became one as we allowed the film to hypnotize us. As well we should have.

I was tempted to shout, “Everyone, coffee on me!” but thought better of it.

Seriously, though, this was the first time in five f–king years that everyone behaved like adults in a Los Angeles movie theater.

I have written on this subject before here, and yap about it nonstop on my show. Have things changed?

Doubtful. A friend suggested that the morning shows usually are full of polite folks such as myself who are courteous and don’t believe the world runs on their feelings. Another said that folks in Portland, Oregon never text during movies. My sister-in-law said the same of chaps and birds in London. Is this an LA thing, then?

Highlights over the years:

  • Man on Fire, 2004, The Grove: dude’s phone goes off just as Denzel is putting two bullets in a bad guys. He starts yapping. We complain. His response, “It’s my wife, guys.” Thank you, Beta Male pussy, for an accurate snapshot into your marriage.
  • Saw 3D, 2010, Santa Monica 5: Hard-R-rated horror flick. Not only are there three under-17-year olds who won’t stop texting, there is also a family of five in the front row with a median age of 5. CHILD ABUSE.
  • Lincoln, 2011, The Landmark, Westwood: Just as the film begins, older dude starts texting. And looking at porn (not kidding). We ask him to stop. His response, “I’m a doctor, and I’m concerned about my patient, so I guess I’ll leave.” To his credit, the lying sack of shit actually got up and left. Maybe he wasn’t lying; maybe he really was concerned about his patients WHILE looking at naked girls. Whatever.
  • Guardians of the Galaxy, 2014, Downtown Disney AMC: Flat-topped idiot starts texting. Won’t stop. We ask management to intervene. They do. He stops. 20 minutes, he starts again. I leave and get the manager. They come back and ask him to stop. This happens two more times. I don’t know if I enjoyed the movie. This asshole prevented me from knowing either way. HAPPY, PRICK?

All of us polite folks can’t stand it when someone starts texting, but let’s face it; the biggest reason most of us are afraid of saying something is that we don’t want to get a bullet in the head. Los Angeles is known for it’s retarded gang culture, and it is true that someone who doesn’t care about other people just might be a sociopath being willing to put a bullet in your head.

So, the solution is to get management involved (as quality control is their responsibility) but even if you are successful, you still lose overall, because you are knocked out of the film’s hypnotic hold. You miss a scene, a detail here in there, you’re thinking about your recent confrontation that you didn’t want, and the movie experience is ruined. All because some inconsiderate jerk had to find out if his selfie got any likes on instagram.

We continue to have an epidemic of morons who don’t give a shit about other people. All id, no guilt. They shave their balls at the gym (true story), they text during movies, they talk on their cell phones while driving even though it’s against the law, and their instagram profiles are chock-full of selfies.

What to do? I say shame, because shame works. At the moment, we ask nicely to not text or talk during the movies. Fucktards do it anyway. Time to switch tactics. Short of throwing them out (like Alamo Drafthouse does, which would be nice), and calling them out for what they are (which is impractical) I say that an animated talking duck walks out before the movie starts and says the following:

“If you text during the movie, you are a selfish idiot who can’t stop facebooking or checking the score. You literally cannot sit still for 90 minutes and enjoy something. You do not care about other people’s experience, only your own. You are distracting people but you don’t care. You suck. To everyone else, please enjoy the movie.”

Call them out. Seriously, we have to stop coddling people, folks.

For the first time, I have hope. With the IPIC opening up in Westwood, the Alamo Drafthouse coming to Los Angeles, and my recent experience, I see now that I am not alone. Time will tell.


What Works For Me: The Zone


Sunday, September 28, 2014

So there I was the other day, in the middle of the toughest run of my life. It was only tough because it was the longest; 10 miles. I was aiming to beat my previous record of 8 miles, during which I broke my previous record before that of 6 miles and change during my very first 10k race.

The first 4 miles were a pain in the ass. My knees ached and my belly (nicked-named, “Wilbur” by my wife) seemed to scream to me, “Jordan, you suck, go home and order pizza.” But I kept going. And then a funny thing happened around mile #7.

I didn’t care.

Miles, 8, 9 came and went, and finally mile 10 arrived (1 hour and 45 minutes later, not bad!). I slowed down to a walk and strolled home. I spent the rest of the day watching my beloved Philadelphia Eagles get a good lesson in humility, enjoyed a cheat day of pizza and wine, and woke up the next day….wait for it…not really all that sore at all.

I was a bit confused until my wife’s lovely friend Jackie said, “Uh, Jordan, you’ve been training for this 1/2 marathon since June. You’ve trained up to this, hello???”

I was reminded of how running 4 miles would have intimidated me back in the day. Now it is practically a warm-up. A listener invited me to this last week and I almost turned it down, as it was only a 5k.

So, about that Zone. Athletes talk about it in the context of feeling, and not thinking. A pitcher throwing a no-hitter is said to be in the zone. A writer is in the zone when great word combinations just pour out of his head, pass through their fingers and into the word processor. A seductive lothario stud-muffin gets into the zone when he flirts with women effortlessly with no fear, because he’s not thinking, he’s just being.

You ever see Star Wars? Using the force? Same thing.

All good examples, but you might ask, how do you get to the zone? My answer that has worked for me is very simple; TRY.

Try, and train. Try, train…and begin.

That’s it, there is no life hack for this one. You must begin. Seems simple, but so many of us (present company included) make excuses. No excuses, play like a champion.

Running-wise, I get to the zone every run simply by understanding that the first 4 miles are going to be the hardest. The zone usually shows up when I stop thinking about how hard the run is, and focus on the music and meditation and, my phone’s running program gently tells me, “You have run…8 miles….at a 10-minute mile…pace, split pace, 10 minutes and 2 seconds, keep going, Jor-dan.  And watch out for that bus.”

Diet-wise; I don’t remember what is feels like to crave sugar in the morning. I just stopped eating it, and the first week, like the first four miles above, sucked. Now it’s the new normal. Eat healthy for one meal only. Now do another. And the next. Do it for a week. Do it for a month. The 30-day challenge thing is quite trendy at the moment for a reason…it works. Bad habits are easy to make, while good ones require effort. That’s a good thing. What isn’t earned, isn’t appreciated.

Most of us are in denial the change is a glacial process. Please build a bridge and get the hell over it. There are no get-rich-quick schemes, there is no magic pill, and anyone who says otherwise is trying to sell you snake oil.

To sum it all up, I have made successful changes in my personal and professional life by getting into that zone. I get into that zone by showing up and taking things a day at a time. I keep my gains small, but stick to my plans so that they add up exponentially, every day, little by little. Someone wiser than me said that 90% of life is showing up and following through. They’re right.

Again, don’t feel like working out? Too bad. But just do this; put on your workout clothes. 1/2 the time, you’ll keep going. Better than none of the time.

Don’t feel like running? Run the first 4 and see how you feel. Just starting out? Run 1 mile. Wait two days, and do it again. Then next week, add a 1/2 mile. Muscle through and before you know it, well, you know.

Don’t feel like eating healthy and you’re craving sugar (or its evil step-child, high fructose corn syrup)? Drink a glass of cold water, and stuff your face with lean meats and vegetables. Keep a food diary, write down every bad food you want during the week and save it for your cheat day.

Writers, don’t feel like writing? Got writer’s block? BULLS–T you’re being lazy. Start writing. I don’t care what it is, it could be nonsense. Just. Start. Writing. Give yourself a daily quota (Stephen King writes 2,000 words a day, every day).

Looks like Nike was on to something. Just do it, and the zone will come.

Note: this is a first in a new series of blog posts. I hate calling this an advice series, because most gurus and life coaches are sociopaths, and I don’t want to be anything like them, hence, I’m just going to tell you what works for me; hence the title. 

Healthy Mashed Potatoes Recipe

I can’t stand hippies. Whenever one of those patchouli-smelling stoned morons tells me that their soy steak/icecream/whatever is better than the real thing, I usually tend to smile politely and then eat a steak just to spite them.

That being said, my wife and I have figured out how not only to fake the real thing, but to make it taste even better. Obviously there are a lot of recipes around the net, but this is our take. A video will be uploaded shortly.


1 cauliflower head

2-3tbs of olive oil

1 cup chicken stock

2 cans Northern White Beans

1 onion, chopped

3 garlic cloves, chopped

5 tbs sour cream

Spices to your liking: creole seasoning, salt, pepper, cayenne, ect


Medium sauce pan

Food processor (this is the game changer)

Deep Skillet



1)   Wash cauliflower and chop off the green stuff and the stems

2)   Boil about 2 cups of water in the sauce pan and steam the cauliflower about 12 minutes, until you can stick a fork through it with no effort

3)   Heat the olive oil in the skillet and toss in the onion. When it is browned to your liking, throw in the garlic and cook together until it smells like Italy

4)   Throw in the beans, then the chicken stock, and simmer. You want the chicken stock to be just covering all the beans. Get them beans nice and cooked. Mix in your spices to your liking. You’ll be doing a lot of taste testing as you move forward.

5)   Throw it all in the food processor with the cauliflower, and MIX!!!! Put in the sour cream at this point.

6)   Then, put it all back into the pot and simmer until it gets the consistency you want. The more you let it simmer, the thicker it’ll be. I like to simmer it on low, then turn the heat off and wait a few minutes.

7)   Enjoy!

A Day in the Life of a Hollywood “man”.

I recently found this online somewhere, from a blog from someone I’ll call, “Robert.” I thought it was interesting enough to share with you all.

This Saturday morning, I’m going to go to the gym. I, of course, will not do so without first telling everyone about it on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. Because everyone needs to know that I’m going to the gym.

Once I arrive at the gym, I will be sure to “check in” at the gym via one of the previously mentioned social networks, so that everyone knows where I am. On the way to the locker room to change, I’ll be sure to take a phone call from a “friend” and ignore the signs asking me to not talk on my phone while in the locker room. How dare they tell me what to do?

Then, I will jump on the treadmill and yap on my cell phone even though there are signs asking me not to, and when I’m done talking, I’ll text and surf facebook to see if anyone “liked” my status, and be crestfallen if no one does. I’ll be sure to only walk or do a light jog and not hit the weights because I have no doubt that steady state cardio is the way to weight loss, and I can eat anything I want and just work it off in the gym.


Also, I’ll be sure to wear sunglasses, and if I do use a machine, hog it even though people ask me to alternate, and I’ll also be sure not to wipe off my sweat. I’m going to do this because I can, and no one has any right to tell me what to do or how to behave.

Then I’m going to go to the locker room, walk around buck naked with my balls hanging out while I head to the shower without flip flops. I’ll be sure to hock loogies while I’m in there, and yap some more on my cell phone once I get back to my locker. I’ll also remember to have a carb-filled “recovery” drink waiting for me and admire myself in the mirror as long as possible in front of the other guys. I might even consider shaving my balls at the sinks if I feel like it.

Then, I’m going to get into my car to get out of the parking garage, and spend 5 minutes with a line of cars behind me because I can’t figure out the ticket thing, even though I’ve been coming to this gym for over a year.

Then, I’ll get on the highway and not check my blind spot because I’m trying to update my facebook status while going 90 in a 65. But don’t worry, I won’t hit anyone. It’s very important that everyone knows what I think about the latest political opinion of mine that I got from a pundit on MSNBC. My opinions matter because they are as real as furniture.

Then I’ll go to the movies. I’ll sit in the middle of the theater and start texting. The previews will start and I’ll keep texting. Oops, I almost forgot to check in on Facebook. I’m cool for seeing, “Man of Steel.” The movie will start and I’ll keep texting. I won’t even turn the brightness down because how else will I be able to see my screen?

I’ll be sure to keep a running tally on how much this movie sucks on Twitter. Because my opinions are as real as furniture and as important, more important, than yours.

After the movie, I’ll go get a healthy lunch of a footlong subway sandwich and a diet coke.

Then I’ll get on facebook again and see if anyone has liked my status from before at the gym. I’ll also look at my ex-girlfriend’s page to see if she’s single yet. She has no right to be happy after dumping me. How dare she be happy?

I’ll go on facebook, again. I get invited to a friend’s house-warming party tonight, last minute, but they are in the process of getting married and are very busy, but is that my problem? Besides, there might be a better party to go to because in Los Angeles, it’s all about networking. I put my response as, “maybe.” They’ve known me since college, they’ll get over it.

Then, a girl I’ve never met who is really hot and has 3,234 friends on facebook invites me to a club opening tonight in Hollywood. Sure I’ll go to that! That’s awesome. Even though I have to buy a ticket for $100, so what? That sounds awesome.

I go home to my $2500 a month condo that my parents are paying for, take a shower and spray a liberal amount of AXE body spray all over my pube-less chest. I spend 10 minutes putting gel into my hair to get that, “No effort at all” look that I’ve perfected. I then take a selfie and put it on Instagram. I then delete it because I don’t want people to think I’m gay.

I drive to Hollywood and pay $20 for parking. I get in line and notice that it’s mostly full of guys wearing the same thing I am; a button-down Ed Hardy shirt, untucked, with jeans and loafers. Many of them are texting. I “check” myself in to the hottest club in Hollywood because I want people to know that I’m here because I’m awesome.

An hour, I finally get in. I only have $100 cash on me and they are only accepting cash for the ticket. I now have to use my AMEX that my rich father pays for. I get into the club and most people are standing. I see the girl who invited me. I try to talk to her but she’s texting and puts her hand up. I check myself in to the club “with” her but she doesn’t approve it on her wall. What a bitch.

I see a guy I work with at William Morris but I ignore him because he’s such a douche; he’s so nice, he’s, like, interested in other people’s opinions and actually gives sincere compliments. What a complete pussy. He’ll get no-where in this town, like he’s ever going to be assigned to a desk. I see Gavin, Paul, Gavin, Dakota and Becky from the office at a table. They invite me over and they give me a shot. For once, I’m getting somewhere.

An hour later I’m wasted and stuff. Is it an hour? No, it’s 2am. I blink my eyes and go get my credit card from the bar. I went to the bar? Awesome! I blink my eyes again when I see the, “$646.45” charge. Whatever; how else am I going to get girls to sleep with me unless I buy them drinks? That’s totally how it works. I write, “CASH” on the tip line, take my card and stumble away.

Whatever, I can totally drive, fuck you. I get behind the wheel of my Porsche Cayenne and ignore the asshole who suggests I get a cab. It’s not like I’m going to get a DUI. Piss off. I drive back to my condo and nothing bad happens. I think I may have dinged a parked car or something but whatever, he’s probably a Republican.

Once home, I don’t want to be hungover tomorrow, so I order pizza and eat the entire thing. I get on facebook and see if anyone likes my statuses. Nope. Whatever. I go to sleep.

I recently found out that the author of this post, Robert, was found dead and mutilated on the side of the 405s freeway near the 101N exit. A Tarbarian Devil Dragon was seen flying away, its jaws bloody with the entrails of a douche. When asked for the comment, the Dragon said, “There is no hope for the human race, but I do my best.”






SNG RECIPE: New York Sirlion Steak with Red Wine Cream Sauce

It’s been way too long since I a) have done an honest to God blog post and b) shared a recipe. I’m currently working out like an bandit, but also eating properly. I’m getting married in a few months, and I do not want a double-chin on my wedding day. I’m only getting married once. This is it. Those of you who have been through the wedding planning process know exactly what I’m talking about.

Anyway, getting into shape is 90% diet and resistance training (sorry folks, but if you think you’re going to lose weight and look fabulous at the beach while eating whatever you want and only doing cardio, you’re in for bitter disappointment. Furthermore, if you are able to read a magazine or text (you suck) while exercising, you will not lose weight. Period.

Anyway, I am no means a chef, or a nutritionist, or a doctor. Thank heavens. Take everything I say with a grain of creole seasoning. I simply follow the advice of this guy, who was a guest on my show last year and knows what he’s talking about. Tom is a lovely man as well as a sincere human being (us Libertarian-minded folks tend to be) and I’m going to plug his work any chance I get. Quite simply, it’s high fat, moderate protein, and low carb.

I also use a wonderful program called, “My Fitness Pal” to keep track of everything, and since I’m obsessive that way, I dig it. No, they aren’t paying me to plug that either…yet.

Anyway, on to today’s recipe, the Steak with Red Wine Cream Sauce. Believe it or not, I originally found this recipe in Steven Schirripa’s “A Goombah’s Guide to Life.” I’m a big fan of the guy and his books are hilarious, but most of the recipes will lead you to an early grave. This one won’t. Because, as we know know, Saturated Fats aren’t bad for you. Quite the opposite in fact.

Anyway, here it is, slightly modified (i.e. the Sensitive Nice Gal gave me some pointers). It all started with Steve, hence he deserves original credit.


  • half a stick of butter
  • 3 medium sized New York Sirloin steaks, defrosted (I recently used one big one that was about 13 ounces total). Try that. This will serve 2
  • salt and pepper
  • 1 onion, sliced
  • 2 garlic cloves, slice and diced
  • 1/2 cup of dry red wine (I did it with Cabernet Sav)
  • 1/2 cup (give or take) of heavy cream


  • Medium-sized Skillet
  • Big knife (think what Glenn Close tried to kill Michael Douglas with in, “Fatal Attraction”
  • Cutting Board
  • Wooden Spoon
  • Tongs
  • Stove Top
  • Oven
  • tin foil
  • cooking sheet
  • measuring cup


  1. Throw on a Frank Sinatra Record (I like, “Come Fly with Me).
  2. Pour yourself a glass of that dry red wine. Raise a toast to Steve, and me, for sharing this recipe with you.
  3. Pre-heat the oven to 350 (this means turn the oven on to 350 and wait about 10 minutes…you can do #4-7 while you wait)
  4. Take out the steak (which you’ve already defrosted) and season it with salt and pepper.
  5. Put the skillet on the stove, and turn the heat to about medium high
  6. throw in the butter. Watch it melt. Savor the smell.
  7. Put the Steak in the skillet and cook it for about 3-5 minutes on either side, depending on how you like your steak. Try to get a nice seer on it. Afterwards, put it on a plate and set it aside
  8. SIDE NOTE – at some point, before step 12, you will put your steak in the oven and cook it for about 10 minutes, once again, depending on how you like your steak. I like ’em medium, so for me, this is about 8 minutes. Up to you.
  9. Don’t toss out the remaining butter. Throw in the onions and cook ’em good. Mix ’em around, dry off the tears until they are nice and loose (like your sister).
  10. Then, toss in the garlic and mix it all around. Get them cooked but not too brown. Cooking takes time and precision. No way around it if you want this to taste good
  11. About 5 minutes later, toss in the red wine. Use the wooden spoon (which you’ve been using already) to mix it all around. Get it bubblin’! After about 4 minutes, start pouring in the cream (no more than half a cup). Do it until the color of your goo is somewhere between red and brown. Your goal here is to have it thick like soup, not runny like water.
  12. When the taste and feel is what you want, turn off the heat, take the steaks out of the oven, and put them on the skillet with your awesome goo for about 4 minutes. Take the skillet off the stove and set it aside. Mix the goo around with your steak.
  13. At this point, your date has arrived and brought a side dish of some kind. I suggest a nice Italian salad with a balsamic vin. Pour them and yourself a glass of wine.
  14. EAT!
  15. Whatever happens after that, is up to you

Anatomy of a Break-Up

My Journey to Becoming King of Sparta…

Don't Judge Me


Almost everyone reading this has, at some point, attempted to lose weight and get into shape. I know I have. I know I tried. And until recently, I failed at every attempt and gave up. Quite frankly, a cheesesteak and coke was an easier path to take than disciplined resistance.

However, I have turned a corner and finally pulled it off. If you told me two months ago that I’d not only lose 15 pounds, but be able to keep it off and keep going, I’d tell you you’re nuts.

So now, I wish to share with you how I did it, so that perhaps you may do the same. Let me give you a heads up; there is no magic pill. There is no secret to getting and staying in shape, at least for the most part. Everything I’m about to tell you is pure logic and reason, as it was for me in the past. I simply lacked the knowledge and motivaton to put the pieces together properly, and now that I have, I hope to help you do it too. Continue reading My Journey to Becoming King of Sparta…

Del Reisman: 1924-2011











Del Reisman – 1924-2011

It is with great sadness that Del Reisman, a dear friend and wonderful teacher, has passed away.

I graduated from college in 2000, and immediately moved to Los Angeles to attend the American Film Institute as a screenwriting fellow. Screenwriting students at AFI take many courses, none so important as our workshop class, in which we are assigned a mentor, who advises us on our writing endeavors. The 40 or so screenwriting students are divided up into groups of about 3 or 4, and my group, after a year of one mentor (who, in the spirit of Del, will not be named, more on this in a bit), decided that we needed a change. We requested a new mentor and in that new mentor, we got Del.
Talk about a night and day difference.

While our previous mentor was full of cynicism and bitterness, tearing our group apart, Del was full of hope and encouragement, pulling our group together. I was personally fired up that I would be learning under a man who wrote for “Airwolf,” but what we got with Del was so much more.

Del never had a bad word to say about anyone. He took Dale Carnegie’s school of thought to task. My writing improved under him not only because of his intelligence and good cheer but also because of his positive attitude. It was no surprise to any of us that Chris Raymond, one of his students (and a great fella in his own right) won the Screenwriting Award at the end of the year at graduation.
After I graduated from AFI, Del and I kept in touch.

We met for lunch often, usually at the Grove, which was nearby the WGA headquarters, where he kept an office. He always insisted on picking up the check, which once in a while, he let me get. A few times, my parents came out to visit, and he and my Dad got along very well; when the check came while having lunch with me and my Dad, I knew they’d fight over it; I convinced Del to let my Dad get it because, well, Del had been there for his son for so long.

My Dad always asked me about Del, and vice versa; my old man knows a good person when he sees one, and Del was no exception.
As time went on, and my career shifted to business school, Del was still there for me; he wrote me a recommendation that helped get me into Pepperdine. It didn’t matter to Del; he always believed in me, and everyone around him.

Del was beloved by all. He had not one bad word to say about anyone. And everyone I’ve ever met had nothing but nice things to say about him in turn. He was truly an example to follow. We spend so much time in our society today, gossiping, talking trash, Del’s example would put us all to shame.

Oh, by the way, Del was a World War 2 vet. This was something he did not discuss, though I heard things occasionally from him, he did not brag that he flew bomber missions fighting the Nazis, because that is what men of class do, or not do; they do not brag, they do not need to talk of their exploits; they just live their lives and let history make their own judgments.

Del vigorously defended the role of the writer in Hollywood. For a time, he served as the President of the WGA. There are so many horrible people in the movie business; Del was the exact opposite of that.

Del loved the movies. I loved talking about movies with him, he always had intelligent things to say about film. He always reminded me why I moved out here in the first place, not for power, or money, or fame, but because we love the art form that is film. I will miss doing that with him.

Del was the greatest teacher I ever had, and one of the best, if not the best, human beings I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. The term, “one of the best guys I know,” is tossed around a lot; with Del, it’s an understatement. Once again, he never had a bad thing to say about anyone. He always had a smile on his face. He always found something nice to say about everyone around him. Ralph Waldo Emerson said, “Every man is my superior in some way,” and Del certainly walked though life that way, never mind that he was quite superior to all of his, in my humble opinion. He just didn’t act that way. The way a real man should.

I speak for all of us, Del, we will miss you. You will never be forgotten. I will miss you always, and never forget what you taught me, in the classroom and out, and will do my very best to live my life in your example.

My Bolognese Sauce Recipe (aka my “Seduction Sauce”)

I wanted to share with you all some recipes of mine, my favorite ones, since I just put together a menu for any of you who are lucky enough to come into my home.  Some of you already have experienced the “cuisine d’Jordan), so, by all means, please sound off and say how awesome it is, because as you know, cooking is one of my stronger suits.

I thought about just putting up a recipe, but then I thought, that would be boring.  Why not have some fun with it?  Ladies, take the following with a grain of salt (or Creole Seasoning, which I prefer) and fellas, well, this is for you.  Enjoy!

So…boys…you wanna impress a lady tonight.  Good.  Don’t apologize for that; food is the lubricant on the way to bliss.

Women fall in love with their ears, indeed, but also through their stomachs.  They love a man who can cook.  And tonight, I’m going to show you how.

1) Go meet a girl.  Make sure that she is sweet, nice, laughs at your jokes, tugs at her earlobe and touches your hand on occasion.  Ask her out.  Take her to drinks (NOT dinner), and dazzle her with your sense of humor, to be certain, but listen to her too.  Follow the 80/20 rule that college admissions people follow, and let her talk. Kiss her goodnight, because you are a man. If you ask her permission to kiss her, you are a little boy and are no longer worthy to read this. In life, ask for forgiveness, not permission.  That is what separates the men from the boys.

2) Dates #2,3, and 4 should contain dinner and a movie, maybe a trip to Disneyland, some first base action. Keep your cool, maybe see other girls so that you are not a complete chump.  This is why they call it interviewing, this dating thing.

3) Okay, time to have her over to your place. You are going to cook for her. Check and make sure she’s not allergic to what you are cooking for, which will be Spaghetti Bolognese with a nice dry Chianti.  I don’t know, allergies present themselves all over the place.  Just double check and make sure that you will send her to paradise instead not to the ER.

4) She is coming over at 8pm.  Keep this time in mind.

5) At 5:30 PM, you will go to the Grocery Store, and buy the following:

  1. ½ pound ground beef
  2. ½ Italian Sausage
  3. olive oil
  4. carrots
  5. onions
  6. SPICES: Basil, Creole Seasoning (you heard me), Red Pepper, Regular Pepper, Oregano, Garlic Salt
  7. Parmesan Cheese
  8. Pack of Spaghetti
  9. Lowfat milk
  10. 3 28-ounce Cans of Crushed Tomatoes
  11. 2 Bottles of Chianti (you’re spending at least 25 bones on this for each bottle, don’t get this shit that only costs six bucks.  It’s going to serve multiple purposes.
    • Big Pot, with lid
    • Wooden Spoon
    • Digital timer
    • Can opener
    • Strainer
    • Teaspoon/Tablespoon measure
    • Big ass carving knife
    • Medium-size pot for the pasta

6) You may notice that you will have ingredients (the milk, cans of tomatoes) in more quantities than you need for the dish.  Not to worry, you will cook this again, it’s THAT good.

7) At the supermarket, when you are at the check out line, and the over-worked single Mom (sorry) asks you who you are cooking this for, you look at her and (hopefully) the hot chick standing behind you and say, “….a lady.”  Have a little smile, and look into the horizon with hope and glory.

8)  Once you are home, it will be about 6:30.  Unpack your groceries and go take a shower. Women like it when you don’t smell.

9) Set two places on your dining room table.  Two table-mats, fork and knife for each, and two plates.

10) By now, it’s about 7:15.  You are a dude, and therefore you are procrastinating. I’ve padded the schedule a bit.  When it counts, I’ll snap you to reality.

11) Lower some lights, light some candles (get them at the mall, NOT at Urban Outfitters like a douche), and put on Frank Sinatra’s “A Swinging Affair.”  The first track is my theme song, “Night and Day.”  You’ll get fired up.  Trust me.

12) Set out two wine glasses, and open the bottle of Chianti to let it breathe, and set it somewhere nearby.  Wine, good wine, needs to to breathe a bit first.

13) Take a large pot and put it on the stove.  Pour in about 4 tablespoons of Olive oil and heat over medium high heat until it’s fragrant, about three minutes or so.  Get fired up, this is just the beginning.

14) While this is happening, take a carrot and skin the heck out of it (you know, like Mom did when she made you salads as a kid. You know how your Dad got your Mom?   Probably like this. Keep reading

15) Take one onion and with a big-ass knife, slice the tar out of it in little thin slices.

16) Throw the onion and carrot into the pot and sauté it for 10 minutes, until they are no longer hard, but nice and loose. Use a wooden spoon to mix it around.

17) While the onion and carrots are cooking, you will take the ground beef and the Italian sausage, and mix them together. Get your hands in this, feel it, love it, mix ‘em up, have some fun!

18) Look at the TIME! It’s 7:45. She’ll be a bit late (girls always are). Let her in, and trust me, the timing works here, because it’s already starting to smell good in here, oh yeah.  And And AND AND AND she sees you cooking, which is the money move because you are awesome, and she’ll be impressed.

19) Wash off your hands (from the meat), kiss her hello, and pour her a glass of Chianti.  Raise a toast to the SNG, show some respect.

20) By now, Frank is singing, and you have some Dean Martin ready to rock. Either your ipod is hooked up, or you have itunes hooked to your stereo, figure this part out on your own. She’ll ask, “Why the Rat Pack,” and you’ll reply, uh, because they are awesome? It’s old school, think Vegas circa 1962. The good old days, when men were fellas and women were dames.

21) As she sips her Chianti and watches you work your magic, you put the meat in with the onions/carrots, and put in the following with the meat for 5 minutes:

  1. Basil – 1 tablespoon
  2. Creole Seasoning – 1 Tablespoon
  3. Red Pepper – ½ tablespoon
  4. Regular Pepper – ½ tablespoon
  5. Oregano – 1 tablespoon
  6. Garlic Salt – 1 tablespoon

22) Dump all that in.  As you use a big wooden spoon to mix it all around, you will ask her about her day, and she’ll do her best to speak to you because the scent of the cuisine is so seductive and intoxicating and she’s so impressed with you that DAMN. You rock. And you are smooth. YOU ARE THE MAN.

23) When the meat is no longer pink, add ¾ cup of the milk and mix it in, for about four minutes (the milk acts as a kind of glue that keeps the meat and spices all together).  At the same time, take a little bit of the Chianti (1/4 cup) and dump it into the pot with the milk.  Oh yeah.

24) After the four minutes are up, open 1 28-ounce can of crushed tomatoes and dump it in, and reduce the heat to low. Cover the pot with the lid and slow cook it for one hour, occasionally stirring with the wooden spoon.

25) In the medium-sized pot, fill it with water up 4/5ths and boil it on high (will take about 15 minutes to get going, give or take).

26) When that’s done, take out about half of the spaghetti (that’ll be enough for the two of you) snap it into thirds, and dump it in the boiling water. Cook for 11 minutes.

27) When the pasta is done, dump it and the water into a strainer and let it sit for a few minutes.

28) Spoon out the pasta equally to two plates that you have set out. Smile. Don’t forget to smile. A smile means that you are having fun, and you are always having fun. While everything is cooking, sit with her, sip wine, go back and forth between her and the kitchen.

29) When the hour is up, spoon out the sauce equally.  Refill the two of you with a bit more of the red stuff (Chianti).

30) Sit down, put on “Ring a Ding Ding” by Sinatra, and enjoy your meal. Nod and smile when she compliments the chef (you).

31) The Chianti will compliment the food, so you’re going to have to open a second bottle.

32) As long as you follow the directions, both of you will clean your plates. And maybe go back for seconds. By now, you two have a good witty banter that is now reinforced by your (newfound) awesome cooking skills.

33) Everything now is up to you. You must give and take, follow her lead, let her follow your lead, and if you play your cards right…