Monthly Archives: January 2026

Planes Trains and Holiday Travel

You know that moment in Planes, Trains & Automobiles when Steve Martin finally snaps at the rental car counter? The legendary, never-matched F-bomb-per-second meltdown that could peel paint off a trucker’s bathroom wall? Yeah. Most people watch that and think, “Wow, what a nightmare. Thank God that only happens once a year around Thanksgiving.”

But for those of us who travel for a living?

That scene isn’t a meltdown — it’s a documentary — about Tuesday.

What makes the movie a masterpiece isn’t just laughter; besides John Hughes being handed the keys to the human heart, it is how precise the filmmaking is. Hughes didn’t just write a great script — he made the shots linger exactly long enough for you to feel trapped with Neal Page. Even the music is a character — It’s filmmaking at its best.

While Neal Page is just trying to get home for one Thanksgiving dinner, the New York-to-Chicago quest is shot like an epic journey: sweeping wide shots of frozen highways, frantic handheld shots in terminals, and that motel room scene so perfect you can smell the carpeting. It’s a journey loaded with missed flights, wrong trains, flaming cars, and waking up nose-to-back with John Candy (“Those aren’t pillows!”).

When I have travel nightmares (in the spirit of Del Griffith), it helps to remind myself:

“I like me. My wife likes me.” This is the traveler’s serenity prayer.

Say it while sprinting through Terminal C in PHL at 5AM.

Say it while stuck in traffic on the belt.

Say it while your stomach makes a noise like a kazoo in a bubble bath from eating at the terminal dinner (perfect name for it).

The way he shoots Neal — tight close-ups early on, then wider, softer frames as Neal loosens — is subtle storytelling magic.

Hughes shoots Del not as comic relief but as a lighthouse in the storm. Soft lighting. Warm colors. Frames that make him look safe even when he’s deeply annoying. Without Del, Neal’s just another guy in a suit yelling into the void.

Neal thinks he’s fighting to preserve the perfect suburban life, but he’s actually being stripped down to something that shows his truth..

Any road comic watching it does

What makes Planes, Trains & Automobiles sacred to road warriors isn’t the jokes — it’s the ending, just a slow, dawning realization across Steve Martin’s face. A masterclass in facial acting, shot with tenderness and held just long enough to break you.

Neal brings Del home for Thanksgiving — turning a multi-day stress coma into something warm and human.

That’s the whole magic trick. This is all part of the Hughes philosophy lesson. One of the greats

Mark Ruffalo- Our Brando

I’ve always had a soft spot for Mark Ruffalo — and not just because he’s one of the best actors of his generation, but because he and I have the same hair. Yes, I am this simple-minded. It’s a spiritual bond. Some people connect through religion; I connect through stubborn curls that refuse to commit to any one direction.

The first time I saw him — I knew the guy had something. There was this Brando-esque gravity to him. Not the “I’m-gonna-wreck-a-production-and-see-who-can-piss-further-off-the-Rio-Grande” Brando, but the young, raw magnetism.

And like Brando, Ruffalo doesn’t perform characters — he inhabits them. He makes every role feel like it wandered in from real life: the nervous, grieving brother; the weary journalist; the Hulk who looks like he’s about to apologize for smashing your living room. He’s got that rare thing Brando had: emotional honesty. A barefoot authenticity. You can’t fake this.

Once, I even went to a barber and asked for “the Mark Ruffalo.” Showed a picture and everything. I walked out with the Bob Uecker. My wife still brings it up anytime she wants to feel better about literally anything.

“Remember when you tried to look like Mark Ruffalo and ended up looking like the baseball announcer from Major League.”

Yeah. I remember.

Before Ruffalo, I was a full-blown Marlon Brando nut (still am). I thought Brando was the north star for anyone who wanted to act — this mix of danger, vulnerability, and rebellion. Meanwhile, in my head, I always felt a little more like Burt Reynolds. Strutting around with misplaced confidence, cracking jokes, driving the metaphorical Trans Am of my life straight into a ditch and smiling while I did it.

When I was in acting school, I was working my ass off but having a blast. I was surrounded by these Very Serious Actors who wanted to debate Shakespeare, or they’d gush about how “essential” Woody Allen was. I never felt I fit in.

Look, I know Shakespeare is important. I know Woody Allen movies are supposed to be genius.

But if I’m being honest?

Neither one did anything for me.

I was living a Burt Reynolds life in a Marlon Brando world, and believe me, I wanted to be Brando.

That’s probably why I gravitated toward guys like Mark Ruffalo, Steve Zahn, and Jack Black. They didn’t feel manufactured, pretentious or forced. They felt like people. They were the actors who reminded me you could be brilliant without holding a skull and reciting iambic pentameter in a Brooklyn loft.

Meanwhile, a lot of my classmates were doing these heavy Edward Norton monologues. Where they’d excavate emotional trauma so deep they needed a carnary. I would get self-conscious for being so shallow that I could mold crepes. And there I was, in the corner, trying to hunt down a bootleg script Something About Mary so I could recreate the Matt Dillon picking up Mary scene for class.

I wasn’t rebelling. I just wanted to have fun while working “real” to me. That’s always been my fuel, and part of why I drifted into comedy — or more accurately, comedy grabbed me by the back of the neck and said, “Hey, you’re supposed to be over here.”

And here’s the funny twist: You get a bunch of comics together after a show, and suddenly everyone’s Hemingway with a drink ticket..

Maybe that’s why Ruffalo sticks out to me.

He’s living proof that you can be grounded and human and still be extraordinary. Giving, smart and a profesional.

You can be famous without acting like a “Movie Star”, brilliant without screaming it.

He makes authenticity look cool.

Which is something Brando taught us — and something Burt Reynolds taught us to enjoy.

Socialpathic Media

I swear to God it’s not social media, it’s sociopathic media. They tell us it’s a place to connect, but I didn’t realize how many absolute assholes were waiting in the lobby with name tags and two followers. I used to believe we’d evolved past the animals : we’ve got thumbs, Wi-Fi, and entire careers based solely on leisure. I don’t hunt, gather, or protect anyone. I tell jokes. That’s my contribution to the tribe. As artists, we put ourselves out there, vulnerable on purpose, hoping to make people laugh or think or feel a little less alone. I always thought that made us better, more evolved. Then I read the comments. Nothing original. Same recycled bile, different usernames. At that point you realize we didn’t evolve : we just gave the cavemen keyboards and called it progress.

How does putting yourself out there online change the way you experience connection: or does it feel like we’re all just yelling in the bears cave?

Self Help?

My AI wellness app chirped this morning: “Today, practice mindful breathing and set Growth Goals for your family.”

Fantastic.
Meanwhile, I’m already out of breath from rescuing a LEGO from the toilet and mediating a hostage-level screen-time negotiation with a 10-year-old who has suddenly discovered constitutional law, maritime rights, and the phrase “that’s not fair” as a legal doctrine.
My Growth Goal?
Survive breakfast without anyone bleeding or crying. And yes, that absolutely includes me.

These apps think parenting is like assembling IKEA furniture—with all the pieces included, clear instructions, no mystery bolts, and a friendly Scandinavian voice assuring you this should only take 12 minutes? No warning label that says “Step 7: Your child will emotionally collapse because the banana broke.”
Also.
Try doing it while sprinting to the dog before an “accident”, maintaining a calm smile, and reassuring your wife you’ve “got everything under control,”.
Has an app ever met a dad in the wild? Not the Instagram dad with the matching outfits and artisanal pancakes doing a dance while cooking in a showroom kitchen. I mean the real one. The coffee-stained, emotionally supportive, quietly panicked dad who’s been awake since 5:12 a.m. because someone had a dream about sharks, even though we live nowhere near water.

Tell me—what’s your latest “wellness” tip versus reality moment at home? Because if mindful breathing actually worked, I wouldn’t be standing alone in the bathroom, whisper-counting to ten like it’s a sacred monastery.

Self Help?

The latest buzzwords in my feed are energy management and digital detoxes. Meanwhile, comedians like me are managing energy by pouring something brown into a plastic cup at 1 a.m. in a green room that smells like regret and stale weed, staring at a phone like it owes me money.
We’re not chasing micro-joys. We’re negotiating with them. Applause, a decent laugh, maybe a slice of pizza that’s been sitting under fluorescent lights long enough to develop 5min. That’s the win. That’s the night.
Turns out, you can’t really charge your aura when the only apps you use are Maps, Notes, and Doom Scroll. Late-night performances are where wellness goes to die. Your “bedtime routine” is finding your hotel room in the dark, wondering how your life choices led to a king-size bed and a mini-bar.
I love the idea of zen. I just keep meeting it in places that serve whiskey in short glasses and cut the jukebox at last call. There’s something beautifully unbalanced about trying to be mindful while living on stage, road miles, and the quiet fear that the clip you just posted will either make your career or be ignored entirely.
So who else is out here trying to balance inner peace with outer chaos and a drink that burns a little? Drop your survival tips. Or your confessions. I’ll be in the green room, staring at my phone, waiting for validation like it’s a bartender who should know my name.

Self Help?

They say “Rise and grind!” I took it seriously. Now I’m climbing a mountain of coffee at 6am, searching for motivation at the summit and hoping there is an easy way down. If greatness is waiting at the top, someone please deliver donuts (and good ones, not that cake bullshit). Pretty sure “grind” wasn’t meant to involve an actual caffeine overdose. Next time, just send the motivational meme—my ambition’s strong, but my follow-through isn’t. #RiseAndGrind #DadLife #fauxtavation

Self Help?

“The early bird catches the worm… but the second mouse gets the cheese.”

What does that even mean? Get there early, but don’t do shit once you’re there? I’m doing self-help right, right? Happy Monday! #MotivationMonday#CoffeeFirst#DeepThoughtsNotRequired

Self Help?

Online, people say you should practice “radical self-awareness”: know your purpose, your passions, maybe even your blood type. Meanwhile, as a dad, husband, and comedian, I wake up every day with my only real question being, “What city am I in, and where’s the coffee?” Bonus points if I remember my actual hotel room number and don’t call the crowd by the wrong town. Maybe my most self-aware moment is realizing confusion is my brand.

A buddy saw me wandering the lobby of a hotel in Maine and asked if I was remaking Down and Out in Portland. Accurate.

I’ve had a sinus thing for the last two weeks and I’ve been in five cities all over the country (bad routing), and it’s starting to feel like a fever dream. Just me, my scarf, and a bottle of NyQuil wandering America—like On the Road, but sadder, quieter, and with an earlier bedtime.

Now I’ve been home for two whole days, the sinus thing is finally clearing up, and I’m starting to feel human again. Which is great, because naturally… it’s just in time to pack a bag, forget where I put my keys, and head back out on the road.