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Perfect is Boring

The Beatles (For Someone Who Didn’t Think They cared for the Beatles)

I was never a huge Beatles guy. Not anti-Beatles — that’s a position only psychopaths and people who lie about never drinking coffee have — but more like how I’ve always treated Shakespeare.

I respect the work. I understand the importance. I know it shaped the world.

But did I ever dive in?

Nope.

I always figured, “Yeah, sure, they’re great,” I’d nod respectfully, and over the years, I loved the solo stuff — Paul’s way of making three different songs inside one, George’s spirituality, hell, I even liked his late 80’s stuff. Even though it was like Stevie Wonder’s “I just called” and Kiss’s “I was made for loving you baby”, we have to chalk it up as they were great artists but still a victim of the times. But the Beatles as a phenomenon? The whole Beatlemania, Beatle-Truthers, the people who treated every lyric like it was chapter seven of the Dead Sea Scrolls?

That part made me cringe.

Honestly, it felt like how I feel about religion: the product is great — wholesome, full of value, makes you feel good — but the people around it? Sometimes a little… much.

Every time the Beatles came up, somebody would go full conspiracy theorist explaining “what John really meant,” and suddenly you’re stuck in a conversation that feels like jury duty.

But then Richie Byrne and I started podcasting. We had on Billy Kramer, Rob Bartlett, Ashley Guttermuth, and — this is a name-drop I’m using proudly — we even interviewed May Pang on NJ 101.5 with Steve Trevelise. Bit by bit, I started getting curious. Not about the myth, not about the global phenomenon, but about the humans.

So I read Hunter Davies’ book The Beatles, and for the first time in my life, I wasn’t looking at “THE BEATLES — THE BRAND.”

I was looking at four young guys who started off just trying to make each other laugh while playing loud music in sweaty clubs. And suddenly… I got it. Man, they struck lightning but were totally regular dudes. I always imagined they were a formula like modern “boy bands”. Paint by numbers pop band.

And here’s where our story kicks into gear:

—

I was wrong, I can admit it.

The Beatles weren’t just four “lads from Liverpool” with catchy tunes — they were almost unfairly likeable. And it wasn’t because some PR team polished them up. It was because they were genuinely themselves: four guys you’d gladly grab a drink and a joke with, if only to hear what smartass thing they’d say next.

Their press conferences? Pure comedy. Everyone else in the ’60s was answering questions like cardboard cutouts: “My favorite color is blue,” “I like blondes,” “Please love me”, “Hi Mom”.

Meanwhile, the Beatles were turning interviews into riffs. A reporter asked Lennon how he found America. He shrugged and said, “Turn left at Greenland.” Not brilliant, not deep — but funny.

Their irreverence bled into the music, too. Rebellious enough for teenagers, harmless enough for parents — the sweet spot to sell tickets and albums.

Those mop-tops were less a fashion statement and more the universal cry of every teenager ever: “I’ll get a haircut next week.” Somehow it became a cultural rebellion. All they did was skip the barber, and boom — revolution. I love this trend out of pure laziness. Long enough that you don’t have to style it (and my mom and brother are barbers), yet short enough that you don’t look like you smell like hot dog water. Dad may bitch- “they need a haircut”, but not say ” you will never see them again”, again the sweet spot.

What really sold them for me, boiled down: four friends cracking each other up, rolling their eyes at reporters, and somehow pulling off harmonies while being chased by screaming fans. They were enjoying the ride. Despite being the most famous humans alive, they never lost their everyman energy. They didn’t try to become aristocrats or tortured geniuses. They stayed working-class, self-deprecating, and oddly normal.

Also TV arrived right on time. Radio made them stars, but television made them loved. Suddenly they were in everyone’s living room — And the best part? They aged well. Not just the songs — them. Watch an interview from 1964 and you’ll still smile. The jokes aren’t brilliant, but the charm is. They were ordinary and extraordinary at the same time.

Four funny, flawed, normal young men who accidentally changed the world. Now everyone is perfectly polished, perfect is boring.

Self Help?

I’ve been told gratitude fixes everything. So here I am, doing emotional CrossFit with the things actively trying to kill me.

Shoutout to all the tiny Legos out there teaching me mindfulness one barefoot step at a time. Nothing snaps you into the present moment faster than colorful plastic pain at 6:12 a.m. Who needs meditation apps when you’ve got physical suffering shaped like a square spaceship?

And a sincere thank you to cold coffee for keeping me humble. Sure, I meant to enjoy it hot, but if this is the price of being so busy “killing it,”.

As for the laundry mountain? That’s not clutter. That’s cardio. My exercise routine is climbing it like Everest. Socks. Every missing match is a mystery. Every basket is a reminder.

Parenthood, comedy tours, daily annoyances : Loud, inconvenient, hilarious stuff all found on the internet. And somewhere between exhaustion and flight delays is the uncomfortable truth self-help books don’t love to admit: this shit means you’re in the shit. You’re living. You’re moving. You’re showing up.

Gratitude is stepping on Legos, drinking defeat-temperature coffee, and laughing because the alternative is screaming into a pillow.

Time to dance like nobody is watching

Beer League Series

What happens when comedians take beer, bad athleticism, and questionable decision-making and turn it into a TV show? Well, wonder no more: because I’m in Beer League: The Series and things have gotten hilariously out of hand

I’m super pumped to be part of this all-star cast of degenerate athletes (and trust me, you do NOT want to miss what happens in this league). Catch all the shenanigans streaming now on 213.tv! Grab your favorite cold one and pretend you’re stretching beforehand. It helps.

WATCH THE TRAILER and let me know your favorite “sports injury” excuse below! #BeerLeagueSeries#Comedy#213tv#AmIDraftableYet

From Jimmy Palumbo @officialjimmypalumbo and Tom Baldinger @624productions. The Series Premiere of “Beer League Last Licks” @beerleague_lastlicks October 23 at 2:13 PM PT on 213 TV. Watch213.tv

Trailer right here https://www.instagram.com/reel/DPzO9rfCX4y/…

Self Help?

They say you can manifest peace and order, so this morning I really committed to it. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. Whispered “serene household vibes” three times like I was summoning a friendly ghost.

Opened my eyes to laundry hanging from the ceiling like avant-garde drapery, toys on the floor arranged in what I can only describe as a World War One Battlefield, and one of my kids brushing his teeth while sitting on the toilet. Like this was a lifestyle choice.

So either I need a stronger vision board, or my family is fully immune to buzzwords. Manifestation, mindfulness, gentle mornings — none of it survives contact with children before 7:30am.

My mornings are like Mad Max: Breakfast Edition.

Mark Twain… American Comedian

Mark Twain, Carbuncles, and the First Touring Comic (Sea Edition)

I’m still trudging through Ron Chernow’s 1,200-page Mark Twain biography—a book so massive it should come with Sherpas to get you through the rough parts. I’m 70% in, which is roughly 800 sum pages, and at this point I’ve encountered the word “carbuncle” more times than I’ve seen my kids since starting this thing.

And look, I love Twain. Absolutely adore him. The man is basically the godfather of roasting — the original comic who could do beefs like East Coast-West Coast stuff.

(Shydner- i know Artemis is the Real OG) But Chernow really wants me to understand this man’s life through and through, not to mention that carbuncle debacle gets more stage time than half the comics I’ve worked with.

Twain spent his sixties dragging himself around the world on a lecture tour to pay off his debts — traveling by train, boat, carriage, and whatever else could get him, his opening act and the merch case in 1895. He performed the same material night after night, punching up jokes while fighting exhaustion, financial ruin, and that ever-present boil. I was waiting to find out Twain dropped his drawers and sprayed the front row with puss like the 1st Gallagher/ GWAR show with these boils.

Mark Twain wasn’t just a writer. He was a full-blown road comic.

A true stand-up with fancier suits, no white sneakers and noticeably worse healthcare (even though the carbuncle may have gotten EQUITY and SAG by page 600).

He became the first boat act.

At one point, Twain takes the Queen Mary to England — and within days, he’s basically running the dining room like it’s his personal comedy club. People are gathering just to listen to him riff over soup. He had the passengers laughing so hard they probably bought merch. The guy turned an ocean crossing into a residency.

Everything about his life reads like the 1890s version of a 1980’s touring journeyman:

Endless travel

Weird venues

Unpredictable crowds

Grinding through sickness

secret and public disdain for the opener when they blow the light.

Performing because the rent (and creditors) don’t care how tired you are

Swap “newspapers” for “social media,” “lecture halls” for “comedy clubs,” and “carbuncle” for “the clap,” and it’s the same exact career of a comic in the 80’s.

What impresses me most is how methodical Twain was. He crafted timing, rewrote between shows, read the audience, adjusted for region — the man treated live performance like both an art and a science. He understood that written comedy and performed comedy were two different animals. He had chops. Real chops. sideburn chops, but chops nonetheless.

The toll?

Same now as then.

Travel grinds you down.

Audiences take energy.

Being away from home messes with your head.

And something always hurts in a way you’re too proud to mention physical or ego.

But in between carbuncles, Twain drops these perfect little truth bombs.

“If you tell the truth, you don’t have to remember anything.”

“Wrinkles should merely indicate where the smiles have been.”

I’m down to my last 360 pages.

Chernow definitely has a few more carbuncles waiting for me, seriously whats with this guy.

But I’m hooked.

Because if Twain could limp across continents with a boil, a busted bank account, and a tuxedo, turning every train car, lecture hall, and trans-Atlantic dining room into a comedy club…

Then the least I can do is finish this book before my ship contract is up.

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?