It’s the first awful night of the year. Freezing, pouring rain, biting winds, can’t get a cab trying to make my way uptown to a Daisy Mays’ 46th & 11th ave location that couldn’t be farther from the subway. My umbrella breaks. I step in a puddle. I’m under-dressed.

It’s times like these that I want to tell New York to go fuck itself.

I’ve spent a lot of this blog romanticizing this town, and for good reason- I love it. But for every triumph, honor and majesty it bestows upon you, it will also piss in your mouth every chance it gets. It’s a real cunt like that.

Like how I somehow inexplicably have 1 dollar and 37 cents on my metrocard right now. How THE FUCK DO YOU GET 1 dollar and 37 cents on your metrocard?

That’s a cunt move NYC.

Or like when I was lost in Crown Heights for 2 hours because Orthodox Jews couldn’t speak English to me, so I tried desperately to use the little Hebrew I knew to ask for directions to the subway. But instead ended up shouting to every person I met “WHERE’S THE TRAIN IN MY ASS?”

That was a cunty move NYC.

Or because I had to pay a brokers fee for my apartment, even though I got the apartment from my friend and I never actually met the broker.

Cunt move NYC.

Because a week doesn’t go by where I don’t step in turd or vomit or gum.

You’re a total prick NYC.

Or like when I moved into my first apartment, a shitbox loft bed off Craigslist, nestled between the highway and the projects just so I could be on the same subway line as my girlfriend at the time, only to get dumped within the month of moving in and then being stuck there.

Of course you would do that, dick.

And the irony is not lost on me NYC how I’ve owned 4 bicycles, and the first 3 got stolen within a month of getting them… but when I decided to buy the most impenetrable lock and chain on the market for my 4th bike, I lost the keys to the lock in a cab and now the bike sits safely outside my window everyday, never to be used again.

Wipe that smile off your face, shithead.

Because you make me paranoid every time I have an itch that I’m infested with bed bugs.

Come on ya cunt.

OH! And why did you move all the good girls out to Brooklyn?!

FUCK YOU.

Tonight is one of those nights where the city seems to be conspiring against me. But I’ve got reservations at Daisy Mays barbecue joint for their award winning whole pork butt, pulled & smoked, (FYI- It feeds 6 easy, with a bunch of sides included for $150, but you gotta order it in advance) so I’m determined to not let the city get me down. I’ve got some serious eating to do.

I finally get to the spot and I’ll be honest, the place is pretty disappointing to walk in to. The front is just a takeout counter, and the back is a sparse, unattended length of mess hall style tables. There’s pretty much no service to speak of, and even though we made reservations they still had us wait around for 20 minute for no reason in particular before we could sit down.

The apps come, and I’m really trying to get into this meal, but they’re sort of disappointing too. The mac and cheese tastes like it’s straight out of the Velveeta box.

The cole slaw is a soggy mess, like it was prepared days ago. The BBQ sauce is freezing, it’s literally come straight from the fridge.

The Texas toast is a sponge of butter. The mashed potatoes are a finely pureed sponge of butter. (These are delicious sponges obviously, but more butter than is necessary anywhere).

The group of twelve aholes at the table next to us order the whole roasted pig.

Poor little guy. He probably only moved here cause he heard of some cool opportunity waiting for him in New York. A job working in advertising or a theater program accepted him or something. But when he got here it fell through, and then he was stuck having to pay the high costs of living and no one else looking to hire. So he did what so many desperate pigs end up doing- Slathering themselves in BBQ sauce and spreading their legs for Wall street douchebags.

But that’s New York. It’ll build you up, then tear your asshole open and feed it to bankers.

When the waiter won’t give me tap water, and says they only serve bottled water I’m ready to just go jump off the George Washington (the Brooklyn Bridge by the way is not nearly as scenic for suiciding this time of year).

But then the main course comes out.

It’s tender and moist. A rich smoky flavor throughout. It’s punctuated by pockets of crispy skin that pack an extra kick of smoke. It’s the kinda food you love on its own, and love with other things.

We start mixing it with everything on the table, and all of a sudden the cole slaw comes alive! The texas toast turns into a genius open face sandwich! The mashed potatoes are like engine oil in a pork-fueled Ferrari! We order some of their more interesting sounding sides, like their bourbon cooked peaches….

Well shit. They’re fucking delicious. And the rich, sweet fruity flavor pairs unbelievably well with the smoky, salty pork butt. Pretty soon I’m making crazy sandwich contraptions out of everything on the table and loving every minute.

So this meal proved me wrong. It seemed like it was going to be a real cunt of a meal. Difficult and surly. Overhyped and overpriced.

But once I accepted its faults, it was obvious what all the fuss was about, and I loved it.

Just like New York, that spectacular cunt.

One of the few enjoyable things about the Writer’s Guild strike two years ago was that I had the time and general lack of daily purpose to get stoned a lot more. It was nice. After a morning of awful picketing in the January freeze we’d go back to the closest apartment, smoke up and play video games or get something awesome to eat. One day after picketing by Fox, Donald Glover (by the way his movie Mystery Team is in theaters now. GO SEE IT!) got all crack heady and told us we had to go the nearby Bon Chon restaurant for the best fried chicken he’d ever had.

The strike was one of the weirdest times of my life. I’d literally been in the guild for a month when they decided to go on strike putting my still very precarious writing career on indefinite hold. I’d quit my day job, gotten a more expensive apartment, sunk a good amount of money into travel to and from L.A. and then BAM I was out of work as quickly as I started. And no one knew when or if it would end.

To make matters worse my dad, for a reason I still can’t exactly figure out, HATES unions. His Reaganite hatred of unions is surpassed probably only by his hatred restaurants that don’t serve free bread and Arab people. So pretty much every conversation I had with him at the time ended with him telling me I was an idiot for being on strike and I should just stop it already…  as if being on strike was the equivalent of smoking cigarettes. If only I had the will power to quit this goddamned strike we could all live healthy happy lives again.

So I was tense.

Which is where the marijuana comes in.

I’ve never been an avid smoker. Don’t get me wrong, I love weed. I smoke weed semi-often. I’m seriously considering getting a prescription when I move to LA. I have a drug dealer on my iPhone favorites here in NY. But I’ve got boundaries. If I have shit to do that night or the next day, I don’t smoke. If I’m going to be around anyone but close friends who would find my stoned hop-scotching between laughing convulsions and silent paranoia uncomfortable, I don’t smoke. If I’m planning to do anything physically active in the next day, I don’t smoke. Simple rules like that cut out the vast majority of my smoking opportunities.

But the strike created a perfect storm of reasons TO smoke; Nothing to do- CHECK; No one to see all day other than my out of work writer friends-CHECK; Crippling depression- CHECK.

And with that I began to set my schedule around one of my favorite NYC past times… the daytime stoned adventure. Now weed, for better or worse, is generally used as a night time recreational substitute for (or addition to) alcohol. But the drug’s properties are so perfectly suited for bumbling around the city in the middle of the day! The bright colors of daytime, the fast service and lunch specials of off hours restaurants, and the wonderful simplicity of uncrowded public spaces. NYC is to daytime-NYC as The Muppets are to Muppet Babies.

To make it even better, the city is basically designed for people with questionable mental abilities! If I’m lost anywhere, there’s a map on the every subway. If I’m being unsafe, the god-like voice of Regis Philbin will tell me to buckle-up. My credit card works everywhere, regardless of how much money I actually own!

So today our dumbed down adventure was to a land of magical fried chicken called Koreatown. But much to the dissapointment of our munchying eyes when we got there the place was closed and told us come back at 6pm.

“6pm? That’s 3 hours from now!?”

“Let’s just go to your place and play with your dog.”

“You got a dog?”

“Remember Lincoln logs?”

“I need to take dump.”

The rest of the strike went by similarly. Picket, smoke, bumble around, picket, smoke, play with Pally’s dog, picket, smoke, try in vain to grow a strike beard…

I kept forgetting to go back to Bon Chon because, you know, I was stoned.

And then word of the strike ending came. Our strike was actually considered relatively successful, getting a host of concessions from the studios & networks that the guild had been hoping for. It was an enormous relief. My brief mid-20’s stoner phase was coming to a close. I knew what I had to do:

Smoke a ton of weed, write on my hand “BON CHON FRIED CHICKEN 314 Fifth Avenue DON’T GET LOST!” and get in a cab.

What followed was the greatest orgy or crispy, moist flavor i’d ever experienced.

The Korean fried chicken is totally different than American style fried chicken- and I’d argue better. Without a trace of chewy fat leftover, every part of the perfectly fried outside has the sweet crackle of candy. The inside is cooked perfectly through, steaming hot from the center out. The meat is thicker, juicier and leagues better than the paltry, bulk processed wings of standard joints. The soy garlic sauce that lightly coats the skin manages to be perfectly salty and sweet at the same time, making it near impossible to ever feel tired of the flavor as you’re eating it. And all this with a significant amount less grease than it’s American counterparts.

Even the side dishes at this place were amazing. My roommate Merisa ordered a cooked salmon & egg sandwich that blew our minds.

And the soju! Fresh squeezed lychee soju, like a sweet fine nectar that also gets you messed up!

And the Asian waitresses! Each one cuter than the last! Each shirt tighter and more low cut than the previous!

It was the most perfect night in a long time.

Weed had got me through a difficult time, and I was coming out the other side ok.

I’ve gone back a couple times since, this last week was the first time with Merisa though. Everything was delicious as always, but we weren’t stoned, cause you know, we’re grownups and stuff now.

We tried to order again the delicious salmon & egg dish that we had the time before, but the waiter had no clue what we were talking about. He said nothing like that has ever been on the menu. We insisted we had it, and it was amazing. He said maybe we were thinking of another resturaunt. We were pretty sure we hadn’t mistaken this place for another Korean dance club restaurant hidden in an office building. But he looked at everything on the menu, and nothing seemed to match. And POOF the Keyser Soze of sandwiches was gone. Did it ever exist at all?

It’s a lot like my brief hiatus as a total stoner. I know it happened. I’m glad I did it. But maybe it’s better it just stay a memory.

I’ve got shit to do.

I was walking around Essex street when I passed the 100 year old pickle-district (yes, NYC has a pickle-district) and I remembered the last time I was there:

5th grade. 1993.

I went to a very small private school growing up and something that isn’t often understood by people who went to public school is that private schools are basically just glorified babysitters at the beck & call of the wealthy parents who pay them. If the richest parents want something, it happens. If the richest parents don’t care about something, it doesn’t matter. And that’s it. Everything else that goes on in the school is an unregulated hodgepodge of whatever the teachers actually feel like doing on any given day.

“The entire grade should take off a day to see Broadway musicals,” says the drama teacher.

YES. DONE.

“The children’s computer room needs accounting software,” says the children’s computer teacher coming on tax season.

YES. DONE.

“The kids would learn a lot about Jewish heritage if we took them to the pickle district,” says the overweight, constantly eating Rabbi.

YES. DONE.

Generally teachers could come up with any half assed excuse to pull us all into a field trip and basically get a day off for themselves.

The best one however was when my favorite teacher, the slightly deranged gym teacher, Dr. Bud, convinced the school to let him take his 3 favorite students to a Mets game instead of going to school.

To put Dr. Bud in perspective you have to realize first he was neither a doctor nor named Bud, and second, he was kind of mentally unstable.

He would get into chair throwing fits of rage when English teachers gave long tests that kept the kids late into his volleyball lesson.

He’d start frothing at the mouth when someone didn’t hustle back on defense.

Sometimes you’d turn a hallway corner and accidentally find him crying. Still not sure why.

His real name was Julian Sherman, but in this wonderful world of make-believe called private school when he walked in his first day and said “Call me doctor” the obvious response was…

YES. DONE.

“Also… don’t call me Julian or Sherman. I want everyone to think I’m friendly. Call me Bud.”

YES. DONE.

For reasons I’m still not sure why Dr. Bud took a real liking to me. I was a chubby kid obsessed with drawing, but somehow he got me to play sports and actually enjoy it. (In 7th grade, at the height of my obsession with basketball I’d secretly decided to dedicate my first NBA MVP award to Dr. Bud) I guess he was proud of that, so he was constantly showering me with praise.

“You’ve got real court vision Danny!”

“You’ve got more heart than a hundred Gils!” (Gil was my friend who didn’t care about sports, who Dr. Bud openly hated.)

“If you keep it up, you could be a player at Minnesota State!”

He was my Cus D’Amato.

I believed in myself so much I started making baseball cards about myself.

There are made up statistics on the back of this card. (and yes, that is a clown in the background. He was our a math teacher.)

In an effort to keep encouraging me and his two other favorite students, Calie and Spiegel, he came up with a contest for best students in gym, and the winners would get free tickets to a Mets game! Of course the contest was never announced until after it had been decided and the rules were never defined to anyone but himself. And I’d find out later Dr. Bud had previously bought 4 tickets for the game that day and he didn’t want to waste them. But nevertheless Calie, Spiegel and I won the contest!

The Mets were playing a day game and when 4th period bell rang, Calie, Spiegel and I got up from the rest of the class and walked out like champions.

“Later losers. We’re going to a baseball game cause we won an unspecific, secret contest! We better make our way to the parking lot and get into the 1987 sedan of that crazy guy who uses an alias!”

Who knows. Maybe it wasn’t actually safe. But it was private school. So no one cared.

That first moment when you break the teacher-student barrier and all of a sudden this teacher you’ve known in one context becomes a real person in a real world context is very strange. By the time we’d been sitting in Van Wyck traffic for 40 minutes and Dr. Bud had ragefully cursed at every immigrant on the road that barrier had long been shattered.

Truthfully, the game went by without major incident or rape attempt as far as I can remember. We spent most of the game talking about baseball mechanics, while Dr. Bud scarffed down unkosher hot dogs, but wouldn’t let us have any. We bragged about it when we got back to school, cause for an 11 year old it was still pretty awesome.

Dr. Bud dropped me off last and when he pulled up to my house he looked me intensely in the eyes, readying himself to say something important.

“Those Packi cab drivers are always fuckin cutting you off.”

I pocketed that pearl of wisdom, got out of the car and started to run up the driveway.

He called out the window with one last thing for me to remember.

“Don’t tell your mom I said that!”

What could 11-year-old-me say to a crazy man on the verge of mental collapse who had somehow been entrusted with 3 children’s lives for the day?

YES. DONE.

THE PICKLE GUYS: 49 Essex St. btwn Grand & Hester

I know I’m writing a blog about eating like a ravenous maniac, so I shouldn’t say anything. What’s that phrase about people and glass houses?

“If you’re an overweight pig, don’t install so many windows. It’s gross for the neighbors.”

I’m pretty sure that’s it. I know I should take that advice, but there’s something about donuts that have always struck me as shamefully gluttonous.

In the little play in my head the role of America’s Obesity Epidemic is played by Wayne Knight from Seinfeld fame…

INT. BEDROOM

A heaping mound of candy wrappers, chicken bones and Pepsi Surge cans litter a bed.

The mound begins to move and moan.

AMERICA’S OBESITY EPIDEMIC (from inside the mess): Morning. BAH! How I hate mornings. I need to fortify my mouth with something so delightful, no amount of insipid conversation from neighboring countries can nettle me!

Fishing around the minifridge he keeps under his nightstand.

AMERICA’S OBESITY EPIDEMIC: Ah yes! I shall eat cake to start my day!

Outside the window children are playing.

AMERICA’S OBESITY EPIDEMIC: Gah! The squealing of your shrill voices and the patter of your tiny feet are already ruining my day! Cake will no longer do! Now I must fortify my cake! I know… I will FRY my cake!

America’s Obesity Epidemic’s MOTHER knocks on the door.

MRS. OBESITY EPIDEMIC: Are you going to leave the house today honey? Maybe look for a job?

AMERICA’S OBESITY EPIDEMIC: Stop harrassulating me mother! This fried cake will need more to settle my nerves, now. I shall dip it in a GLAZE OF SUGAR! aaaaaand SPRINKLES. and make it PINK.

A DONUT magically appears in his hand, he devours it, then jerks off to the Cake Farts porno and goes back to bed.

FIN

So when my friend Megan Neuringer told me that we were taking a trip to Donut Plant for breakfast this morning I was pretty skeptical.

I got there before her and decided to try a donut to confirm my suspicions that there is no godly reason to eat fried cake before 11am. I had the pomegranite cake donut (fruit seemed appropriate for breakfast) and a coffee. It was good. Nothing special. Not replacing eggs and OJ anytime soon. “Sorry donuts, figure your schedule out and then we can talk.”

I must’ve looked dissapointed, because as soon as I finished up my coffee the owner & head baker, Mark Israel saw me and asked me what I had. He wasn’t happy with my samplings so he proceeded to pull from the fresh-trays his 5 favorite donuts in the place. Megan shows up with our friend Alison Becker just in time for the challenge.

Aright Mr. Pastry, whip out your donuts!

I’d like to say we walked out of Donut Plant that day with our dignity in tact, but gods honest truth is Mark Israel fucked the high holy shit out of our faces.

I’m talking some filthy girl on girl on donut/ boy on donut on girl/ donut on adorable-Christmas-themed-counter-guy kinda action here.

This is the snuff film of food porn. The kind that leaves you walking funny and feeling ashamed, even if you can’t remember specifically what for.

First the tiny yet powerful Creme Brulee’ donut stunned my tastebuds with a candy like sugar exterior crispied by blow torch, and dripping from the center with the most intense custard creme my body could handle.

Then came the carrot cake donut, which unlike the yeasty creme brulee donut, was in fact just a cake in circle form. An amazing, moistly perfect piece of carrot cake… topped with toasted nuts and carrots… with a magical ring of cream cheese running through the center.

Then the squagel looking coconut donut- fresh coconut glaze, with a delicious coconut cream running in that same magic loop through the center. Followed shortly by a peanut butter glazed & fresh blackberry jelly donut that made me wistfully realize how far my childhood had fallen short of perfection.

At this point I’ve pretty much proven to be no better than Jennifer Connolly’s character in Requium For a Dream. I’m a whore. They’re selling footage of me to perverts in Japan.

Please Mark, stop. I’ve had enough. I need to be able to look my parents in the eye.

Mark doesn’t care. He’s a maniac. He breaks out the most perverse of all his concoctions. THE BLACKOUT.

A chocolate cake donut, with a dark chocolate fudge inner ring, topped with a chocolate cookie crumble. This is the Lexington Steele of donuts.

Where am I anymore? I feel like I’ve been flipped upside down, and all my clothes are missing except my sneakers.

I check my watch.

10:56am

I’ve had 5 donuts, a coffee, a chai tea and an orgasm.

I am Wayne Knight. I am the face of American Obesity.

Stop looking in my glass house!

DONUT PLANT: 379 Grand St. btwn Essex & Norfolk street.

Dear Pizza,

It’s me, your old boyfriend Dan Gregor. I hope this letter finds you well.

I know it has been a long time since we last spoke. I’m sure I hurt you when I left so unexpectedly. I was experimenting with some new fad diet that told me you were bad for me. It told me that all the fun times and carbs we had were unhealthy and destructive. It told me I should delete you from my phonebook and never try to see you again.

I know now this was a mistake. Can you ever forgive me?

In the months since I last saw you, I’ve learned a lot about myself… about us. I know that I am a better person with you in my life. I know that all the drinking and partying and going out late means nothing if I can’t end my night with you pressed against my lips. I thought I wanted to be someone different, someone “physically fit”. But after all those empty flings with salads and lean white meats I realized those pretty calories are really just empty calories. Meaningless side dishes in my life.

You’re so special to me. You were my first true love. I remember cutting high school to sneak in a quick takeout session with you. I remember those broke, lonely college winters where you would nourish me once, twice, even three times a day. Remember when I’d get money from my parents for books and I’d just spend it all on you instead? It just made sense. I guess your first true love always does.

But then we grow up and things get complicated. We get jobs. We get new friends. We get slower metabolisms. It’s confusing to say the least.

I was walking down the street the other day, rain pouring down my back, I was feeling pretty sad, and like an old love letter you find pressed between the pages of a book, I looked up and saw your place, John’s Pizzeria. Nice. Worn in and comfortable. Simple yet thoughtful. A brick oven warming every nook. It was so you.

I couldn’t help myself. I HAD to see you! It was an off-hour so I thought maybe you wouldn’t be busy, but you made me wait to order for a really long time. But, I deserved that. I was getting ready to give up on the whole endeavor and just go slut it up down the street with some whore of a salmon. And then you walked in…

Crispy, thin and slightly blackened on the bottom, but still chewy and soft to the bite. An elegant and restrained amount of gooey, steaming cheese. And those crispy splashes of bubbled over mozzarella penetrating the edges of your outer crust! You’re so unpredictable!

And your sauce! Your sweet, sweet fresh tomato sauce. I taste the basil! I taste the garlic!

GOD I MISSED YOU.

I eat until I can’t fit another bite, I clean my face and run out the door before we can even talk about what we’ve done.

I’m writing this letter to let you know that I still love you and if you’ll take me back I won’t ever run out on you again.

Just say yes and I will open up the leftovers in my fridge right now.

Forever and always,

-Your cheesy boy.

JOHN’S PIZZERIA: 278 Bleecker St. between Morton & Jones st., near 6th ave.

I go out to dinner with a bunch of friends to this awesome Lebanese place I’ve meaning to try- MOUSTACHE!

Calie is still in town visiting from Boston and if I hadn’t mentioned it already, she’s a funny lady. For most of my childhood she was simultaneously the funniest girl i’d EVER known and the best girl at sports i’d EVER seen. Even though there were only 5 girls in our class, and I think one of them might’ve had muscular dystrophy, Calie was and still is a lady legend of our generation.

Midway through dinner she picks up the oversized barely cooked leek that garnished her entree and for no discernible reason yells to everyone, “Who dares me to put this whole thing in my mouth?!!”

What makes people want to be funny?

For something that occupies SOOOO much of my time, I rarely actually think about WHY I want to be funny. For as long as I can remember, going back to early grade school, I’ve been the kid shoving strange things in my mouth, making weird voices, dressing up for no reason and sarcastically tearing down anyone showing weakness.

Why do I do these things?

There are better things to be than the funny one. Why didn’t I want to be the brave one? Or the kind one? Or the skateboarding inventor one?!

But somehow early on my Darwinian lizard brain told me “Make them laugh or they will eat you!”

It’s basic science really. If you put in front of a bear a salmon and a salmon covered in George Carlin DVDs, the bear will eat the regular salmon every time. Bears fear word-play.

FUCK.

See what I did there? That was a joke… (barely)… As soon as I was about to make some actual emotional discovery about weakness and the terrifying prospect of opening up to people I shut that door and make a joke out of it.

So then when you get several funny people in a room together (or an entire community of them) just imagine the exponential amount of semi-conscious emotional doors closing every second. All of us navigating our way around the dangerous or uncomfortable or honest back to the safe ground of laughter. It’s a thin weird line to live on and we funny types have chosen it to be our home.

Which brings me back to Calie and the giant leek she’s about to shove in her mouth…

“DOOOOOO IT!!!!” everyone shouts!

Her lizard brain kicks in and like a fish in water she just knows what to do; the barely cooked onion gets shoved in her mouth.

Everyone laughs like she knew they would. Aahhh, safety.

This is of course followed by every funny person’s inevitable moment of regret.

Why do I do these things?

We finish an amazing meal. Middle Eastern mint teas, puffy pita breads, extra smoky baba ganoush, split pea soup with crispy sauteed onions, grilled chicken and baby lamb flanks (heavy on the lemon, garlic and cumin marinade, just like my Israeli aunt used to make), some spicy lamb sausage with tahini & tzakziki yogurt sauce, an amazing ouzi (chicken, veggies, raisins, almonds & basmati rice all cooked into a filo dough ball- whoa) and some sticky sweet baklava to finish it off.

We’re all sitting around pretty contented and happy, when someone points out that the couple sitting behind me has been giving us nasty looks the whole night for being too loud.

If you didn’t know, Loud is funny.

So now I’ve got some pissed off people breathing down my neck making everyone uncomfortable. I should stand up for me and my friends and tell these snobs to back off! I should do something even the slightest bit courageous and confront someone older and bigger than me! I should FINALLY be the tough one!

“Who wants to see me pretend to be pregnant!?” my lizard brain makes me say instead.

Ahhhh survival. It’s better than being dead.

MOUSTACHE! (I added the exclamation mark for effect): 90 Bedford St. off 7th Ave, near Barrow.

I wake up from some shenanigans the night before kinda hung over. I stumble into the living room and am surprised to find my friend Calie laying on the couch looking dead. She’s not moving, her eyes are wide open, the dog is growling at her like something is off.

Oh crap. What did we do last night? Did I accidentally kill my oldest friend in the world in some sort of drunken rage? Was “The Invention of Lying” THAT bad? (yes. it was.)

“HEY! Calie you ok?”

“Wha? Who! Where am I?”

I love Calie. I’ve known her since I’m 4, and she’s pretty much been a confused septuagenarian since pre-K. She likes to leave her contacts in when she sleeps. This leads to her eyes not closing all the way, which in turn causes her to look dead when dreaming. It never ceases to freak me out.

We throw on some clothes and go get our hang-over medicine: diner brunch.

My favorite hangover spot is La Bonbonierre. In case you don’t speak french, La Bonbonierre is French for “greasy shithole.”

I mean that with all the love in the world. If you haven’t figured out by now shitholes hold a special place in my heart. The dirty, worn seats and floors. The bathrooms emanating a thick urine mist. The graying and sticky silverware. It all means a long and storied history of people enjoying this place.

And more important than any ambiance bullshit, this place makes kickass food. Fast, cheap, greasy and big ass portions, BonBon cuts the brunch crap out of the way and gets you where you need to be- full of eggs, coffee and some sort of breakfast meat.

The 60 year old waiter who hates every newly local hipster that walks in asks me what I want.

I’m feeling like a sweet toothed dandy and want pancakes… Banana? Blueberry? Both? Weeeeee! I’m an adult! I get to eat cake for breakfast!

My foppish ambivalence is pissing him off.

“I’ll have both,” I say in my manliest voice. “And throw in some bacon.” Their bacon is crispy like hot smoky thick-cut potato chips. It’s amazing.

Calie orders something eggcellent (trademark Batman, 1977), and we proceed to do our little friendship ritual that we’ve had since we’re kids.

“I’ll trade you some of my blueberry pancake for some of  your spinach, feta omelette?”

It’s just one shade off from “i’ll trade you hydrox cookies for shark bites,” but without the secret booger wiping going on under the bottom of the table.

We fork each other some breakfast foods and try to decide who got the better end of the deal. I think I did. She thinks she did. I blow milk in her face. She gives me a purple nurple.

The waiter comes over and asks with disdain in his heart if we’d like more coffee.

Weeee! I’ll have more coffee!! I’m an adult I can have as much caffeine as I want! Yaaaay!

But Calie’s smarter than she looks. Once I’m distracted by the waiter’s pouring she wipes a booger on my leg the size of a wedding ring and it’s official: Her feta and spinach omelette was the winner of breakfast.

I’m not mad. We’re good old friends. So next time she falls asleep at my place I’m going to fart in her eyes.

La BONBONnierre: 28 8th Ave. btwn Jane st. & 12th st.

It’s the night before Thanksgiving and I promise myself to go easy on the food to save room for a feast the next night.

But then I get drunk, and all logical boundaries I set for myself are thrown out to the curb.

Conveniently, New York is not good at enforcing logical boundaries either. We live in closets, sun bathe on tar-rooves, sleep like vampires and don’t enforce mayoral term-limits.

In my future home of Los Angeles I’d be lucky to survive a week living the way I live here.

Let’s compare & contrast:

MY NIGHT OUT: NYC        vs.        MY NIGHT OUT: LA

NYC 9:30pm- Finish work with Doug, call up some friends to meet us for a drink.

LA 9:30pm-  Finish complaining about work with Doug, call up some friends to meet for a drink.

NYC 9:35pm- Walk to Wilfie & Nell, run into Greg Tuculescu on the street. Wilfie & Nell is bursting at the seems with cute girls. Too crowded to stay, but not too crowded to do a lap around the bar pretending like we’re looking for someone.

LA 9:35pm- Get into separate cars to go to a bar I’ve never heard of.

NYC 9:45pm- Recruit Greg to come with us for the evening. Go across the street to Kettle Of Fish, start drinking dark ale.

LA 9:45pm- Sitting in traffic. Almost get in a car accident.

NYC 10pm- Run into an old friend from when I worked at the Daily Show, Adam Lowitt, who’s with Wyatt Cenac, current Daily Show correspondent!

LA 10pm- See Greg sitting in traffic on the freeway also! I wave to him, he can’t see me. I start honking. Everyone starts honking. A middle aged home insurance salesman can’t take the honking anymore, commits suicide two cars down from me.

LA 10:15pm- Get to the bar, can’t find parking. Almost get in a car accident.

LA 10:30pm- Find parking with very strict parking regulations. Try to understand the sign, pretty sure I’m legally parked. Like 90% sure.

LA 10:33pm- Walk past Frank DeCaro, former Daily Show correspondent!

LA 10:35pm- Get to the bar, it’s packed to the brim with gorgeous girls. Too crowded to stay, but not too crowded to do a lap around the bar and then remember we just paid a $10 cover to get in and there’s a 10 car pile-up on the highway from the Insurance Rep suicide. Decide to stay at crowded bar.

NYC 10:45pm- A guy from Murray’s Cheese Shop walks in with 4 bags full of leftovers from the day at Murray’s. He takes a liking to us and gives us 6lbs. of flaky cheese croissants for free. I eat 3 flaky cheese croissants and am more in love with Murray’s than I already was.

LA 10:45pm- A guy from Mo-Ray’s Cocaine Shop walks in and takes a liking to us, because we’re clearly not going to get girls to talk to us without it. He offers a good deal on 6 pounds of cocaine. I eat 3 pounds of cocaine because I don’t know how cocaine works.

NYC 11pm- My girlfriend Rachel and Doug’s girlfriend Nicole meet up with us and bring along some other excellent friends. We keep drinking. I switch to scotch.

LA 11pm- I vomit and get kicked out of cool L.A. bar. Call my roommate DC to come pick me up. Crack open a beer to sober up and punch things because I did in fact get a parking ticket.

LA 11:30pm- DC gets lost. Almost gets in a car accident.

NYC 11:40pm- Nicole says she wants a burger from 5 Guys down the street. Three drinks and an appetite whetted by flaky cheesy bread, and I tell her she’s a fuckin genius. She checks her iPhone, finds out it closes at Midnight. . I scream like the fat child I am because I don’t think I have time to go home and get my camera AND get back to 5 guys to order.

LA 11:40pm- I tell DC to stay where he is, I’ll meet him. Forget I’m wasted, decide to drive. Almost get in a car accident.

NYC 11:41pm- I decide to SPRINT home. My legs are woozy from drinking, but farts and burps propel me at super sonic speeds. My long winter coat makes me appear like a super hero, so civic-minded people clear a path on the sidewalks.

LA 11:41pm- Actually get in a car accident.

NYC 11:44pm- Terrible heart burn sets in. Begin to walk briskly. No longer look like a super hero.

LA 11:44pm- Still drunk and pretty hyper from eating cocaine, I remember how much I want a burger! But when does it close? Check iPhone. There’s no reception. THERE’S NEVER ANY RECEPTION.

NYC 11:50pm- Get my camera. Would like to be a super hero again, so I take a hit from my bowl.  It works. I SPRINT out the door and to 5 Guys.

LA 11:50pm- iPhone works again inexplicably. There’s an In & Out burger joint in Hollywood open till midnight! I’ve got 10 minutes to get there, I decide to SPRINT in my car, and flee the scene of the accident.

NYC 11:55pm- Think I’m not going to make it, running down Bleeker Street burping, farting, screaming.

LA 11:55pm- Traffic. Haven’t sprinted anywhere. Haven’t moved past one intersection yet. Despite driving at less than 1 mph, almost get into a car accident.

NYC 11:59pm- Run into 5 Guys burger joint as they’re getting ready to lock the doors. My friends cheer as I arrive… or maybe they’d been mid cheer for their burgers. I catch my breath, order the double burger with ketchup, mayo, pickles, sautéed mushrooms and onions and a fountain Diet Coke (and ¼ Root Beer).

NYC 12-12:30am- Eat my kickass backyard BBQ style double patty, some of Shannon’s greasy ass fries, the awesome free salted peanuts and try to stop sweating. This place is drunk heaven.

LA 12am-12:30am- Get full body cavity searched by the police because I’m wearing “black” sneakers. This place is drunk hell.

NYC 12:30am- 1am- Hang out in 5 Guys way too long after closing. Get dirty looks from the staff. They’re powerless to stop us.

LA 12:30am-1am- In the back of the squad car, really breezing through traffic! Ask if we can stop for a burger. They decide to beat me with nightsticks instead.

NYC 1am-2am- Walk around West Village with Rachel, stop in Jane Tavern for nightcap.

LA 1am-2am- Left to die on side of highway. Crawl barely alive to nearest establishment to call an ambulance. They say it was last call at 1:30 and I’m going to have to wait till morning.

NYC 2am- Head home with Rachel.

LA  4:37am- I get a blood transfusion at the hospital. But it’s got AIDS.

LA 7am- The 10 car pile up on the interstate has led to massive rioting, wild fires and an earthquake. Chaos ensues. Societal order determined by death battles in Thunderdomes.

LA 9am- The In & Out burger opens again. I FINALLY get to have a burger.

CONCLUSION: It will take me almost 10 hours longer to get my drunk burger in LA vs NY!!! WHATTHEWHATNOW???!?

FIVE GUYS BURGERS & FRIES: 296 Bleecker St, off 7th ave.

I met up with my buddy Jon Bander, a fellow comedian and my favorite person in the world to improv with, because he swore by this sandwich shop, Defonte’s Of Brookyln (not in Brooklyn).  Bander is responsible for introducing me to Bahn Mi Vietnamese sandwiches. So when this man talks sandwich, I listen.

“Get the #34,” he tells me. Hot roast pork, melted swiss, fried eggplant and spicy pepper salad.

I imagine that combo right away. I imagine the crispy fried eggplant and gooey swiss blending together. That’s a real winner to start. Then throw in some hot meat and veggie based spice to counteract the sweet eggplant and cheese, and you’ve got a satisfyingly complex sandwich balance happening.

By the way, I’m obsessed with sandwiches.

I have some radical theories about sandwiches, which, if you’re ready to weep uncontrollably from glimpsing a higher truth, I will share with you.

Since the dawn of modern civilization man has yearned to put stuff he likes on bread. From the ryes and sourdoughs of the hinterlands to the pitas and crackers of the desserts, from the steamed buns of the east to the corn breads and tortillas of the west- Modern man has found both physical and spiritual nourishment in connecting the things he likes into one easy to eat handful.

I found this out first hand when last summer Pally & Doug and I got hooked on playing this improv warm-up game that Billy Merritt created called “MAKE THAT SANDWICH.” The game is you pick a person that you’re making a pretend sandwich for. Everyone else in the group takes turns adding an ingredient to the sandwich. When someone feels like the sandwich is perfect and adding anything more would only ruin it you say “Make that sandwich,” and then the person you’re making it for has to decide if they would or wouldn’t eat this pretend-sandwich.

As it turns out, EVERYONE likes imagining sandwiches, so when I introduced the game to some of my other non-comedy world friends it was an instant smash. Pretty soon everyone I knew was playing “Make-That-Sandwich.” We were playing it in elevators, bars, subways. We were playing it at parties in circles of up to 20 people. We were playing it restaurants before, during and after ACTUAL meals. Strangers and tourists would enthusiastically join in wherever we started it up.  We’d walk into bars, girls would bite their lower lips and say “Who are those guys who know so much about sandwiches?” And then they’d sleep with us!

Someone came up with the rule that if you decide to eat the pretend sandwich you have to name that sandwich!

“French Onion Reuburt!”

“Blintzkreig!”

“The Oligarch’s Dilemma!”

Some people started shouting “MAKE THAT SANDWICH!” and slamming their hands down on the table as if it were a game show buzzer. I imagine it was like those first heady days of Wheel Of Fortune, when Sajack and Vanna were so in love it hurt, and they were just spinning the wheel cause it felt good, not cause anyone expected them to.

But I think we found something bigger than that. We’d found the secret to human connection.

NYC, for all I love it, can be harsh. It’s ostracizing and brusque. We can feel so disconnected from people. But in reality, all it takes to turn a stranger into a friend is jointly realizing how many more connections we share than differences. And what surer place to start looking for those connections than in the timeless, revered sandwich.

As I ordered my Defonte’s sandwich and pondered what kind of sandwich the Chinese version of me was ordering right now on the other side of the world, my friends Curtis & Annie walked in randomly. Curtis and I have known each other for a long time, but only recently did we become friends. We’re both moving out to LA in a month and we’re both pretty nervous about it. Curtis is moving in with my writing partner, Doug, so I’m excited to hang out with him more once I get there. And Annie I just met a couple weeks ago. She seems really funny. They ordered sandwiches and we talked about them. Now we’ve got connections.

DEFONTE’S OF BROOKLYN: 261 3rd Ave & 21st street. The original IS in Brooklyn in Red Hook- 379 Columbia St between Coles St & Luquer St.

Here’s a list of things you should and shouldn’t do on a lunch break from work while in the Spanish tapas bar, Boqueria.

YOU SHOULD:

• Order the bacon wrapped dates stuffed with almonds and blue cheese

YOU SHOULDN’T:

• Try to get work done. Babies will be there crying… because apparently babies love tapas.

YOU SHOULD:

• Order a coffee. It’s phenomenally good.

YOU SHOULDN’T:

• Try to kill time by looking at TheSuperficial.com in close proximity to said babies. They like tapas but not the Pirelli Calendar apparently. How am I supposed to know this?

YOU SHOULD:

• Befriend the hipster bartender. He’ll give you more free coffee.

YOU SHOULDN’T:

• Keep drinking cup after cup of coffee just because it’s free.

YOU SHOULD:

• Order the seared lamb marinated in lemon and cumin, topped with a terrificly spicy salsa verde.

YOU SHOULDN’T:

• Start to have an upset stomach from all the coffee and then decide to order fried cod balls with citrus cream sauce. It will taste like hot tuna mush and dairy.

YOU SHOULD:

• Run to the bathroom.

YOU SHOULDN’T:

• Have to wait for 10 minutes at the uni-sex/uni-age single bathrooms for a gurgly -mouthed diaper-wearing shit-&-piss factory to get his eh-eh cleaned off by his mommy.

YOU SHOULD:

• Hop and squirm about as flamboyantly as possible in the hopes that your pain will telepathically seep through the thick wood doors and magically FINISH CLEANING THAT FUCKING BABY.

YOU SHOULDN’T:

• Audibly growl when said mom & baby come out of the bathroom. Babies don’t like growling and the Pirelli Calendar, and they do like tapas. I’ve learned a lot about babies today.

YOU SHOULD:

• Barely make it with your pants in tact.

YOU SHOULDN’T:

• Have to use public bathrooms, EVER. Especially after babies. Their craps are a chaotic mess, lacking in form and order. It’s like no one gave them the message, if you don’t eat a regular diet you’ll have chaotic bowels. And that is a right reserved for adults.

BOQUERIA: 53 w19th st btwn 5th and 6th ave.