There is no better acting exercise than being at a gas station and watching someone walk in with full intent straight to the men’s room. It’s completely clear they know what they want and what they need. They are doing it with purpose and high stakes. Bravo Daniel Day-Lewis of The flying j!
The Grocery Store Olympics: Cart vs. Aisle vs. Sanity
There is panic at the grocery store every trip. I was at GIANT in the town over from us, just trying to grab milk — you know, the errand equivalent of “I’ll be right back” in a horror movie — and suddenly I’m in the Grocery Store Olympics. Thankfully, after years training by living in New York, I navigate crowds like a salmon with a MetroCard. I zip, sidestep, merge. I can dodge a rogue shopping cart like it’s 40th Street at rush hour and the person pushing it thinks spatial awareness is a myth from the old country.
And flanking me are my two boys: Duke — my loving ADHD squirrel/Spider Monkey in human form — bouncing between aisles like he’s been sipping cappuccino, asking “Can we get this? And this? And Dad, look! They make ice cream-filled pretzels!” before sprinting off to scale a pyramid of canned yams like it’s the Temple of Doom. Then there’s Axel, the curious philosopher-chef, analyzing ingredient labels and asking deep questions like “Dad… why is homemade food better than processed? What is a flavonoid? And do hot dogs count as meat if none of it looks like actual animal parts?” Meanwhile, I’m just trying to remember if we need eggs or if I’m hallucinating dairy at this point. They have every kind of nut and plant milk, but no milk milk.
Around us, shoppers are split into two types: the produce-section NASCAR drivers and the aisle blockers, stationed like they’re guarding the last loaf of 14-grain bread. Everyone’s running their own silent event: speed bagging, stealth sampling grapes, and the classic “pretending not to panic when you can’t find the pears,” followed quickly by “pretending you weren’t staring into the frozen pizzas like you just remembered every bad decision you’ve ever made.”
And somewhere in the chaos it hits me: we’re all in this together. All of us, parents and grandparents, pushing carts full of hopes, family balance, and bad life choices (Aisle 5). So if you ever see someone behind you with just three items — especially a frazzled parent flanked by a squirrel and a tiny food scientist — let them go first. You’ll earn good karma… and prevent the bread aisle from becoming a hostage situation.
Wake up at 5 a.m., they said. Achieve greatness, they said.
Meanwhile, I’m lying there negotiating with my alarm clock like it’s a hostage situation.
Influencer morning routines promise enlightenment, productivity, and inner peace. What they actually deliver is a pre-dawn existential crisis and recycled lukewarm regret through motivational quotes, while my soul quietly files for bankruptcy.
If I believe in myself hard enough, maybe the crippling dread will politely wait until 8 a.m., like a respectable adult.
So tell me—do these heroic morning routines actually make anyone happy?
Or do they just make people better at faking joy on the internet?
I had to write this because, on three separate occasions, people have told me I have “Bob Dylan hair.” And every single time, that’s immediately followed by a tidal wave of terrible Dylan impressions — like saying his name triggers a Pavlovian response in every Drunk Uncle who ever owned an acoustic guitar and a troubadour dream. Everyone thinks they’ve got a Dylan impression. They only have an impression of an impression. From comedian friends to audience members, they all do that same thing, where Dylan apparently sings every single word he speaks. “Heyyy, can I getta turkeyyy subbb?”
Here’s the thing — Dylan is not easy to do. His voice sounds like a haunted kazoo whispering poetry through a cigarette filter in a Nash Rambler driving through the Midwest. It’s part mystery, part upper respiratory issue. That’s why James Austin Johnson is the man. His Dylan isn’t just accurate; it’s him talking. He cycles through eras like he’s flipping through radio stations: early Folk Dylan, Smooth Crooner Dylan, Coked-Out Rolling Thunder Dylan, and my favorite — “Disney vulture” Dylan.
Rich Hall’s got the cranky, seen-it-all Dylan down pat, and somehow Ethan Hawke managed to make “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” sound like a lost track from Blood on the Tracks. But the truth is, no one truly does Dylan — not even Dylan. The man’s been changing his voice and style for 60 years. A great impression isn’t about getting the notes right; it’s about channeling that amazing point of view in the moment — the sense that you’re hearing a prophet, a poet, and a guy who might ask if you’ve got any rolling papers, all in the same breath. The answer, my friend, is still blowin’ in the open mic night.
Impressions are hard. I used to try them all the time, annoying everyone — now I usually only do characters in act-outs. I don’t claim they are spot on, I am more essence of someone in the moment. I have so much respect for impressionists (when they’re good). It’s an art form that’s part mimicry, part madness, and a little bit of masochism. I may be biased, but Craig Gass is one of my favorites. The guy can slip into voices so cleanly it’s like he’s got a Rolodex of souls. I just hope someday he sends me a Bob Dylan to prove me wrong — because if anyone could make Dylan sound like Dylan, it’s Craig. Who is your favorite impression.
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.
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
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/…
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.