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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 a sherpa. I’m 70% in, which is roughly 800-something pages, and at this point I’ve encountered the word “carbuncle” more times than I’ve seen my own 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 vs. West Coast rap stuff. (Shoutout to Artemus Ward though — I know he’s the real OG.)

But Chernow really wants me to understand this man’s life through and through. 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 move 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 kept waiting to find out Twain dropped his drawers and sprayed the front row like the first Gallagher or GWAR show.

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 him Equity and SAG membership 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 hear him riff over soup. He had 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 journeyman comic in the ’80s:

• 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.

What impresses me most is how methodical he 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 then as now. Travel grinds you down. Audiences take energy. Being away from home messes with your head. 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, what’s 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 F-bomb-per-second meltdown that could peel paint off a truck stop bathroom wall? Most people watch that and think, “Wow, what a nightmare. Thank God that only happens once a year around Thanksgiving.”

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 the laughs — besides John Hughes being handed the keys to the human heart — it’s how precise the filmmaking is. Hughes didn’t just write a great script. He held the shots just long enough for you to feel trapped with Neal Page.

While Neal 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 chaos in terminals, and that motel room scene so perfect you can smell the carpet. Missed flights, wrong trains, flaming cars, waking up nose-to-back with John Candy. “Those aren’t pillows!”

When I have travel nightmares — and I do, often, in the spirit of Del Griffith — it helps to remind myself: “I like me. My wife likes me.” That’s the traveler’s serenity prayer. Say it while sprinting through Terminal C in PHL at 5 AM. Say it while stuck in traffic on the beltway. Say it while your stomach makes a noise like a kazoo in a bubble bath after eating at the Terminal Diner (perfect name for it, by the way).

The way Hughes shoots Neal — tight close-ups early on, then wider, softer frames as he loosens up — is subtle storytelling magic. And he 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. He’s actually being stripped down to something true. Any road comic watching it gets that.

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

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

That’s the whole magic trick. And John Hughes knew exactly what he was doing.

Mark Ruffalo- Our Brando

I’ve always had a soft spot for Mark Ruffalo — not just because he’s one of the best actors of his generation, but because we 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-wee-on-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. Emotional honesty. Barefoot authenticity. You can’t fake it.

Once, I went to a barber and asked for “the Mark Ruffalo.” Showed a picture and everything. Walked out looking like 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 — that 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.

In acting school, I was working my ass off but having a blast. Surrounded by Very Serious Actors who wanted to debate Shakespeare or gush about how “essential” Woody Allen was. I never felt like I fit in. Look, I know Shakespeare is important. I know Woody Allen movies are supposed to be genius. But 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 Ruffalo, Steve Zahn, and Jack Black. They didn’t feel manufactured or pretentious. They felt like people. The kind of actors who reminded me you could be brilliant without holding a skull and reciting iambic pentameter in a Brooklyn loft.

Meanwhile, my classmates were doing heavy Edward Norton monologues, excavating emotional trauma like they needed a canary. I’d get self-conscious for being so shallow I could mold crepes. And there I was in the corner, trying to find a bootleg script of There’s 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. 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.”

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. Living proof you can be grounded and human and still be extraordinary. 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.