How To Memorize Your Stand-up Material [or anything]

Last night I did stand-up at Gotham Comedy Club. Before the show, a few comics were hanging around chatting. At one point, one of the comics mentioned she was working on her next hour.

“How do you memorize a full hour of material?” another comic asked.

I stopped listening at that point because I was too busy mentally writing this article. Now that I think about it, it was probably a mistake to ignore her. She may have had a life-changing answer that I completely missed.

But since I spent the time thinking about it while they were all talking, I’ll give you my thoughts.

Some people say that memorization comes down to repetition. I think that’s short sighted. Also wrong. While repetition helps, it doesn’t ensure you remember every word of every joke when it comes performance time. Especially if you get nervous. Even if you don’t get nervous, maybe you’ll be thrown off by the guy sitting in the front row and oh my god why is his beard so big? Does he have to take it for a walk? Oh crap, I stopped mid joke to ponder these questions and now I can’t remember where I’m at.

We’ve all been there. 😐

First, you’ve already got a leg up on memorizing your material because you wrote it. So it’s already in your head somewhere. I’m not going to say it’s easy to retrieve it, but I think memorizing something you wrote is easier than memorizing something you didn’t.

Use Images

Second, use images. I wrote two new minutes of material yesterday and wanted to perform it last night. To get me from joke to joke, I created mental images, which are much easier to remember and recall than every word of every joke.

Here’s how it worked for me.

The bit is about my wife and her career. The first joke is “My wife writes romance novels, or as I like to call them, wish lists.” So I imagined a shopping list on fancy parchment.

Then I imagine that list as a book I’m reading. Which gets me to the next setup: “It’s hard for me to read her books.” I already know why it’s hard for me to read her books because I wrote it [and it’s true]:

“It’s hard for me to read her books. Number one, because I can’t read.
But number two, it’s like she’s writing about the life I haven’t given her. Her last book was called Marriage on Madison Avenue. We live on 42th & 10th.
Is this a cry for help?”

[I didn’t say these were GOOD jokes…] 

Next I imagined a glass of white wine on one of the book pages, which gets me to the next joke:

Whenever I tell someone she writes romance, they always say the same thing. “Oh you mean smut? Hahahaha.” [I perform this act out as a WASPy middle-aged white woman sipping wine.]
Leave the jokes to the professionals.
Calling romance novels smut is like calling When Harry Met Sally porn. It’s not true, no matter how much you want it to be.

With the wine in my hand, I imagine my wife hollering from another room. Which gets me to:

Sometimes she’ll ask for input, but it feels like she has an ulterior motive…
"What’s the fanciest restaurant in NYC?"
Le Bernadin.
"Most romantic vacation spot?”
Paris. Are these for your next book?
"No…places I wish you’d take me."

Finally, I imagine her pointing at my [nonexistent] six-pack abs.

People ask if I’m the inspiration for all her books.
Her characters are 6’4’’ and have 6 pack abs. I’m [air quotes] six foot and slammed a Philly cheesesteak for lunch. You do the math.

A female friend asked me “are you ever having sex and she gets up to write it down?”
No.

If anything it’s the opposite.
I'll read her books and pick up a new move.
She’s like “where’d you learn that?”
“Page 46.”

The most important part is to use the images while you memorize the material. After I wrote this stuff, I read through it slowly and created images for each setup. The more detailed the images, the better. The idea—which I’m paraphrasing from the books below—is that the brain remembers unique things. When it sees something new, weird, dangerous, or sexy, it creates a flashbulb memory of that thing. And the more interesting, detailed, unique, scary, or sexy the image, the better it’ll stick in your mind. You can make the images as scary or as depraved as you want—no one else has to know unless you write a blog post about it!

The next step is to connect the images to one another in order. That’s why I start reading the wish list like a book. And that book has a picture of a glass of white wine scribbled inside. And if I’m having wine, I’ll always pour one for my wife, who I notice is pointing at my [nonexistent] six-pack.

When it comes time for performance, all I have to remember is the wish list, and it sets me off on a path of connected images. And before I know it, my set is over and the crowd is standing in ovation [booing].

Side note!

Once you memorize the material, it’s important to trust that it’s “in there” somewhere. I fret all the time that I’ll forget something, but it’s the fretting that makes me stiff on stage, and that’s when I forget stuff. When I relax and trust that I’ve programmed my brain to retrieve the images and the jokes automatically, that’s when things come easy. Check out Inner Game (listed below) for a great explanation of why this works.

Recommended Reading

• Moonwalking with Einstein (👈🏾 affiliate link)

• The Memory Book (👈🏾 affiliate link)

• Inner Game (👈🏾 affiliate link)

Ritz Ready

The last stop on our month-long road trip finds us in the Ritz-Carlton. Which means we had to get Ritz Ready.

We got haircuts. We did our nails. We gave Bailey a bath. We stopped on the drive over and changed into prettier, fancier clothes and moved our luggage into into prettier, fancier bags. We filled up our rental car with premium and got a car wash. We would have bought a new car but didn’t have the time.

When you stay at the Ritz, you rise to the Ritz. You wear new underwear. You do your hair. You don’t wear a hat, unless it’s a fancy hat. And even then, as soon as the valet takes your stagecoach and you step into The Ritz, you remove it and hand it to one of the bell boys who is hired for the sole purpose of holding top hats.

You speak with a vaguely British accent, the refined Oxford one, not the backwater Cockney one, nor one from any place that ends in -shire. If in doubt, do an impression of Tony Blair. If you don’t know Tony, try Hugh Grant. If that’s too hard, try Ben Franklin, George Washington, or any of the Founding Fathers.

You tip generously. Or not. I’m not sure if the rich at the Ritz tip more or less than us regular folks. Or at all. Maybe they don’t even look at The Help. The bellboy boy seemed to appreciate the $100 I slipped him, even going so far as to say, “thank you, m’lord.” I didn’t know bellboys were allowed to speak at the Ritz. Will he be caned?

The coffee machine is better. It’s Illy. Which is Italian for fancy. The pods are all plastic. There’s no foil. No paper. No filter. Because those. aren’t. fancy. For the Ritz Regulars, the machine pulls espresso. For everyone else, caffe. Which is Italian for pansy.

There are Ritz-branded bottled waters everywhere. On the desk. On each nightstand and next to the coffee maker, in case your pansy coffee is still too strong. There are bottles near each of the bathroom sinks. (There are three!) They’re hidden in each drawer with the bibles. Nestled between the cushions of the couch. I think I even slept on a giant bottle of water. One of The Help came by last night and gave us more water. What’s wrong with non-Ritz water? Is that why my hair’s falling out and my belly protrudes?

The bed is heavenly. Not capital H Heavenly from that dump of a hotel and my pre-Ritz favorite, The Westin. Yuck. There are more sheets than I know what to do with and each of them has a higher thread count than all the sheets I own, combined. Why do they fold the two dozen sheets into some sort of pretzel you have to unwrap in order to sleep? I don’t know. Why are there eight pillows? Are they different? I don’t know. During my first night’s sleep I changed my pillow every hour on the hour and threw the old one out, which is what I assume they meant for me to do. Is that right? I don’t know. Those are Ritz Secrets.

The no dogs allowed signs are tiny and shaped like a dog taking a poop. They’re black, and small, and when they’re placed low on the dirt, impossible to read. Impossibly chic. They don’t actually say “no dogs allowed.” They just say “No.” That’s not just cool. That’s Ritz. But what do I know? I’m not rich.

I’m a pretender. An imposter. I splurged for a few nights because it’s our anniversary (thank you!) and it’s the end of a month long road trip. We’re tired. We’re haggard — save for the new hair cuts. We need to do laundry. We’re furry. We need a brushing. Sorry, Bailey walked into view and I just realized she’s not fully Ritz Ready. How did they let us through the front door?

I don’t belong. I’m not sure I want to belong. There is nothing wrong with the Ritz, with the people at The Ritz, the bellboys who hold top hats at the Ritz, or the valets at the Ritz who valet automobiles — cars are so pedestrian. But I’m wearing a white t-shirt and sweatpants as I write this from my Ritz desk. The shirt probably [definitely] has pits stains. I’m not even wearing socks! Gross! My hair’s a mess. My breath smells like coffee. I’m a dumpster fire behind a luxury building. I’m the one trash can in the lobby that didn’t get emptied, and maybe [definitely] stinks a little. I’m dehydrated. I’m nervous. I’m waiting for that knock on the door, and the manager to softly whisper, “We know you’re not Ritz; come with us.”

But yet I’m here. I’m sipping Ritz water. Trying to work the Ritz caffe machine. I just pulled an espresso. Or the machine cleaned itself. I don’t know. I need to brush up on my Italian. I still need to brush my teeth. But later today I’ll probably [definitely] have a Ritz cocktail in the Ritz lobby. And no one will know I don’t belong. They’ll take my order. They’ll bring me nuts. They’ll take my 8000% tip. The Ritz patrons will pet my dog. They’ll smile at me. And they’ll have no idea there’s an imposter in their midst.

And that’s the point. I don’t matter. Not as much as I think I do. No one really cares what I look like or how I dress. Or how many Negronis I’ve had [a lot]. Or that my dog is licking their children and shedding all over the lobby. Because they’re too nice and too busy with their own jobs and own lives to really care what’s going on with mine. I am nothing.

But in that nothingness, I am free. I’m free to wear a pink shirt. Or a red sweater. Or a watch with an orange wrist band. They don’t care because they don’t have time to care. They might be just as worried about being Ritz Ready as me.

So next time I don’t feel Ritz Ready, I’ll just remember that no one is.

A version of this article originally appeared in Anthony LeDonne’s newsletter. Not one of the hordes of subscribers who enjoy his writing on a weekly basis? Click here.

Voiceover Setup

I recorded my first live voice over session today. The clients didn’t say it, but I’m pretty sure I was the best voice over artist they’d ever heard. Anyway, this article isn’t about making sure everyone knows I’m amazing—though it will contain plenty of that—it’s a list of the tools I use to record my first voice over job.

So.

Here we go!

Note that this is not a comprehensive list. It won’t contain pros and cons. It’s just my setup and I’m telling you about it because I use it to make money as a voice over artist and … it works.

Computer

Apple 16” MacBook Pro. I absolutely LOVE this thing. I had a 15” MacBook Pro but then on a whim I got the 16”. The keyboard is so much better. You don’t need anything fancy to do voice overs, but it helps.

Software

Adobe Audition. There are a couple of professional options when it comes to software. Audition is my preferred method since I already have an Adobe Cloud subscription. Audacity is another. Pro Tools is another. I don’t use many of the bells and whistles in Audition—most of the time I just record a clean file and let the agency do whatever adjustments they want—but they’re there in case I have to do them myself.

Microphone

Shure SM7B. I didn’t think a nicer microphone was going to make a difference. I couldn’t have been more wrong. It’s expensive, but I absolutely love the sound quality it produces. Well, that I produce, but you get the picture. This microphone makes my voice sound so rich and clean. I use to use a Blue Yeti podcaster mic, which was okay to start with, but the Shure SM7B blew it out of the water.

Recorder / Audio Interface

Zoom H4N Pro. You can’t just plug a microphone into your computer. The Zoom H4N Pro is a fantastic little device. There are other alternatives with better bells/whistles/knobs, but living in a tiny Manhattan apartment, I prioritize size over almost everything else. It’s the size of an old school cell phone. You can record onto the Zoom H4N if you don’t have a computer handy and/or just as a backup.

Travel Guide: Manchester, VT

View fullsize

Downtown Manchester

I love Manchester.

Outlets, great food and drinks, a beautiful golf course, AND beautiful fall foliage—all less than a 4 hour drive from Manhattan? Sign me up.

Wiff and I usually make one trip a year to Manchester. And this year is no exception, even if it was a bit by accident.

We spent a few nights in Stowe to catch the last of Vermont’s fall foliage. We got there in the middle of a storm, which served to wipe out pretty much all the foliage they had left. Lack of leaves aside, we loved Stowe [Travel Guide pending]. We wanted to stay longer but they had no rooms available.

So we went crawling back to the ex we shared some wonderful times with, and headed south to Manchester.

WHERE TO STAY

The Kimpton Taconic. I love Kimpton hotels. They’re all pet friendly. They have great bars and restaurants. I asked my wife to marry me at a Kimpton—me and Kimpton go way back.

They have a social hour every day from 5-6pm where they give out free beer and wine. If you hypothetically spent the morning hiking and the rest of the day working in your hotel room, the social hour is a good motivation to shower and get out of the room.

View fullsize

The Equinox Resort. Our first two visits to Manchester had us staying at the Equinox. The place has history. Four U.S. Presidents stayed here: Taft, Grant, Teddy Roosevelt, and ol’ Bennie Harrison.

Lincoln was supposed to head here [poor choice of words] but couldn’t on account of his being assassinated. His son, Robert, built his family home in the neighborhood, and you can visit it today.

The building shows its history. The rooms are cozy and large [we have Taft to thank for that]. The structure feels old, the grounds are in need of a little sprucing up, and they need to do something about all the ghosts.

It is a Marriott [née Starwood] property, which is wonderful news to SPG loyalists like me trying to rack up their nights.

View fullsize

WHERE TO EAT

The Copper Grouse at the Taconic. They have some of the more knowledgable bartenders in town. Wiff ordered a Vesper and was surprised when it came out perfectly.

“This Vesper is perfect!” she said. “Thanks!”

“That’s an O.G. cocktail right thar, Miss,” the bartender said. “We don’t get many folk orderin’ that round these parts.” He paused to polish a pint glass with a dirty rag. “Mainly city folk like yourself. And mayhap a few country dudes spoilin’ to tie one on.”

“I don’t know what half of those words mean,” I said.

Wiff took a sip as the bartender continued. “Tain’t another barkeep in town who can conjure a cock-tail like that. Y’all come back know ya hear?”

THINGS TO DO

Outlets! Like Catholics genuflecting upon entering a pew, Wiff and I always take a minute to pay our respects to the Manchester outlets whenever we're in town. We always stop at Theory for dresses and Kate Spade for jewelry. Vineyard Vines also has an outlet here for you whale tail fans out there.

HIKES

Lye Brook Falls Trail. This one came highly recommended from the staff at the Taconic. It’s also rated the top hike in the Green Mountain National Forest area. We didn’t do this hike because we also heard it was crowded, but also because we’re not really falls people. Based on the pictures it looks pretty good. I just can’t comment on it since I didn’t do it.

Prospect Rock Trail. This hike is only 3.1 miles out-and-back. That’s less than walking a 5K. The only catch? It’s entirely uphill so it feels more like stair-mastering a 2.5K and on the way back, stumbling a 2.5K. Some people complain that the trail is boring, which I could see in summer when everything’s lush and green and—kinda boring. But take a look at autumn!

View fullsize

dAd! WaiT uP! als0 whY ArE u LeaNInG WeiRDlY (Prospect Rock Trail)

View fullsize

HeY, m0M. YoU’vE G0t BetTeR trEATz AnyWay. (Prospect Rock Trail)

Holy crap, it was like walking through an autumn wonderland. We were pretty late in the leaf peeping season but there were still tons of beautiful yellows, oranges, and reds.

And once you reach the top—completely winded and drenched in sweat—your reward is the view from Prospect Rock. Note: The actual viewpoint is hard to find if you’re terrible at reading signs. Near the top, you’ll see a sign that says “LOOK UP!”, which leads you to a smaller sign on the same tree that says, “Prospect Rock ➡️.” If you’re good at following directions, you’ll see a little path off to the right. The viewpoint is 20 yards down that path.

And this is what you’ll see.

View fullsize

View from the top.

View fullsize

Gratuitous foliage shot.

Not bad, right?!?

If you' brought a telephoto lens, you can sneak up on the local cows in town. Click the photo below to zoom in, you little bovine voyeur, you.

View fullsize

Well hello there, Cow.

It gets chilly when you stop hiking so be sure to pack layers. If you look closely enough, you’ll see me, Wiff, and Pom, wrapped in Wiff’s vest and sitting on her lap.

View fullsize

Can you see us??

Book Review: Can't Hurt Me

On the drive up, we listened to David Goggins' audiobook, which is fantastic if you're looking to reach your potential.

It's the story of how one man "transformed himself from a depressed, overweight young man with no future into a US Armed Forces icon and one of the world's top endurance athletes."

Between each chapter, the audiobook version includes a radio show style conversation between the author and his ghost writer, which breaks up some of the more graphic stories—his shitbag dad beat his entire family—with challenges for listeners to help them reach their potential.

Last night, Wiff and I partook in the first two challenges: take stock of all the crappy stuff holding you back and, 2) . I took stock of all the crappy stuff holding me back [lack of self-application] and then engaged in some real selftalk.

. I recommend this book if you want to kick the legs out of any excuses

I do not recommend this book to anyone looking to improve himself, herself, their self, ourself, Chief Sealth, or the 2005 movie Stealth starring Josh Lucas, Jamie Foxx, and Jessica Biel—which bombed at the box office and should indeed be looking to improve its self.

Personally, I have no use for the book. You see, some of us are at the top of our game. We can't go any higher. Not because of any physical, emotional, or even spiritual limitation. But because there's nowhere else to go. I don't know how else to describe the feeling of being at the top other than than lonely. Which is why I'm making myself appear more normal so that I may be more relatable. So. If you're looking to get better—like me [wink]—then I'd HIGHLY recommend this book.

Buy it here.

Book Review: Range

“Don’t feel behind.”

That’s my favorite line from this book. I realize it’s not so much a line as it is three words of advice, but for someone who often feels behind, it’s good advice.

The book opens with a story about two of the world’s best athletes. One has trained at his sport pretty much since birth. The other tried a bunch of other things and didn’t really get into his sport until later in life. But at one point or another, they were both at the top of their respective sports. The two athletes are Tiger Woods and Roger Federer.

The upshot is that we hear more about the Tigers of the world. We learn that specialization is the ONLY way to guarantee success. So parents enroll their kids in violin lessons at age 2.

But Range illuminates the lesser-told story, that for every Tiger there’s a Roger. Don’t feel bad if your kid isn’t playing Für Elise by age three, it’s okay. [But by god make sure they nail it by the time they’re 4.]

I enjoyed Range (👈🏾 affiliate link) because it made me feel better about being who I am, someone with multiple interests who hasn’t really broken through yet.

When I a kid, I wanted to be a doctor. And then a scientist. And then a computer game developer. And then, when I finally turned 11, I came to the conclusion that I wanted to be on stage. Doing what, I had no idea. I just liked stages. Mostly for the girls—my wife was stage manager for a lot of my high school shows—but also because making other people smile felt good. I can remember one moment during a production of Godspell where I was on the stairs leading down to the audience. I was singing so close to real people. I can still remember seeing them smile. At everyone else on stage.

I later got involved with our high school’s improv team. That was even more fun, because we would actually make people laugh. And that, my friends, is the real goal of this whole thing. It wasn’t enough to make people smile or, depending on the quality of the performance, occasionally cry. No, I wanted the laugh. I was hooked.

So I did what any normal kid did. I went to college, majored in political science—again for the girls [my wife was a poli sci major]—and economics (because I wanted a job). I got a regular job as a technology consultant. Then I became a recruiter. Then an independent headhunter [same thing]. And then a commercial actor, stand-up comic, and writer.

In short: a lot of different things.

The hardest thing about doing different things is that I don’t feel like I’m making progress in any one area. It’s easy to feel like a failure when none of your pursuits has panned out successfully.

Range (👈🏾 affiliate link) was the first thing that made me feel okay being who I am—someone who does a lot of things.

I just haven’t “broken” yet. [Note: I’m using broken in the sense of “breaking out,” not “broken down.” It’s an important distinction… I think a lot of people break down before they break out.]

This book reminded me that it’s okay to be me. Someone with varied interests. Someone who doesn’t have ONE THING that they make a ton of money doing. [At least not yet.]

It’s a good reminder that Rome wasn’t built in a day.

And yeah, I’m Rome in this example.

Here’s an affiliate link to the book on Amazon. If you click it, I’ll earn a commission, which will put a few cents in my pocket.

Buy the book (👈🏾 Non-affiliate link)

Always Do The Banana Joke First

There’s a moment in an episode of Comedian In Cars Getting Coffee where Steve Harvey talks about telling a young comic, who’s about to face a tired audience, to open with his closer. It’s a joke about bananas. The comic opens with his usual stuff and gets eaten alive.

Recently I’d wanted to change things up. I wanted to start stronger. In recent sets I started with B or C material and then, once everyone was keyed into my cadence, I went to A stuff. This was stupid. I wasn’t starting off strong and as a result the audience was barely with me by the time I got to my big closer material.

So I tried I tried Steve Harvey’s advice. I started with a joke I know always gets a laugh.

And it worked!

I started with “Dating is hard…especially when you’re married.” And I got a laugh. It put me at ease. Like, “alright, one down, let’s keep rolling.” It put the audience at ease too.

Until I open my mouth, every one of them is thinking, “I hope this guy’s funny.” And once that first joke’s out there, they relax. “Okay. He doesn’t suck.” They’re on board!

The funny thing is that all my other material got bigger laughs too. Once they were relaxed and listening, they had a stronger response. And that made me more confident in my delivery, which made the jokes better, which resulted in bigger laughs… etc. You get where this is going.

Anyway…

Next time you’re in a rut and wanting to punch your stuff up, try opening with your closer. Always tell the banana joke first.

Bad Representation [Not a Taylor Swift song]

I just passed on an offer for representation from an on-camera commercial agent. A lot of actors would call this ludicrous. But it was the right call for me for several reasons.

First and foremost, the contract was excessively limiting. They wanted to prohibit me from posting on any social media without their prior consent. The exact line: “refrain from posting to any social media platform without AGENCY’s prior consent.” I post on Instagram daily-ish, YouTube occasionally-ish, and Facebook never [because it's a trashfarm]. 

I wasn't really interested in running every post by them for approval. Besides the fact that that’s completely laughable, it raises an interesting question: what kind of clients do they deal with where they need to approve every social media post? If mom and dad have to approval every minute detail of their child’s life, maybe they got a bad child. [That's how kids work, right?]

Second, they wanted the right to use my likeness for all agency advertising IN PERPETUITY. That means that even after we part ways they wanted the right to use my image, voice, video, audio, for their agency advertising. I asked if we could remove “in perpetuity”—because those two words are an actor’s nightmare—and replace with “Subject to Talent approval; approval not to be unreasonably withheld.” 

I thought that was reasonable. To me it says, “you can use my beautiful face for your giant billboards, but you gotta ask me first and, btw, I won’t be a dick about it.” And, god forbid our relationship burns in a fiery blaze of glory, I have the right to say “no, dickheads, you can’t use my beautiful face.”

Three: The contract includes an exclusivity clause whereby they’d be my only representation. This alone isn’t a deal breaker because everyone asks for it and it’s not that unreasonable in my opinion. If they’re gonna bust their hump getting me in front of casting directors, the least I could do is say that I won’t canoodle with other agents behind their back.

What I didn’t like is that they’re based in another city— let’s call it Omaha—and they were primarily going to book me in that city, and they were unwilling to write in an exclusion to the exclusivity clause that would make it okay to work with my NYC representation (Abrams), whose contract, by the way, is nowhere near as long or as restricting. As it was written, I would have been in breach of contract the moment I signed.

Four: When I asked about these points, their response was that it was “non-negotiable.” Whenever I see that, I know it’s time to run for the hills. If you’re unwilling to have a conversation about our working arrangement, then I don’t want to work with you. Even if you’re unwilling to amend your contract, I want someone who’s willing to explain why. Even if they’d said, “Sorry, it’s not our practice to adjust the contract because we like to keep our legal stuff simple” I would have totally understood! I still would have passed, but at least it wouldn’t have left a sour taste.

So, to all the new actors out there clamoring to find an agent: Be okay saying no. Be okay passing. Because hitching yourself to an agent who’s not a good fit could be worse than not having an agent at all.

We moved. Again.

The NYC skyline is sooooo blah.

I forgot to tell you we moved. Well twice actually. 

About a month ago we moved from the UWS back to Hell’s Kitchen. Because we actually missed it here. Surprised, aren’t you? We were too.

There’s something about the dirty scrappiness of Hell’s that I love. Nothing’s perfect here. Some parts are new and wonderful. Others are old and wonderful. Most of it’s dirty and gross but alive. It’s a lot like life. Deep, eh?

That was a month ago. And then a week ago, we moved AGAIN. 

Crazy, right?

We just weren’t feeling the tiny studio vibe. Not because it was a tiny studio—that part was actually kinda nice. But more because of the light situation. Because of the structure of the unit, we didn’t have wall to wall windows. There were soffits or whatever they’re called on either side of the room, which blocked a lot of light. So our place was a little dark all the time. Not the end of the world, but we just weren’t feeling it. 

Our new place is palatial by comparison. It’s a 1.5 bed and 1.5 bath and is the biggest place we’ve ever lived in in Manhattan. There are four doors inside the unit. Which is insane! The way it’s structured makes it feel way larger than it really is, too. Which is nice. 

Oh! And the best part, it’s kind of a corner unit. There’s one room—what we refer to as The Parlor—the juts out a little bit from the north side of the building, and it creates an interior corner. So from The Parlor, we look north AND west. Pretty sweet, right?

I never thought the corner thing would appeal to meal. I never thought I’d enjoy it as much as I do. The north view is all buildings, but they’re in the distance, so it’s kinda like having mountains in the distance. And there are low buildings to keep things interesting in the middle ground. And then, because it’s a freaking corner unit, I can see all he way down 42nd St. to the Hudson. THAT’s pretty sweet.

The biggest challenge in a larger apartment is not filling it up with shit. That’s the problem we had in previous places. We’d downsize in a small place, then move to a bigger place, buy a whole bunch of shit, then downsize again when we moved to a smaller place.

If we can keep the same amount of crap we had in the smaller place in the bigger place, it means we’ll have more room for stuff to spread out. More open space. More empty space. Which is pretty sweet. 

Because in that empty space is where ideas can germinate. I think that’s important in a home. Leave enough empty space for ideas to form. If your home is filled with clutter, then there’s no room to find new ideas. When I was a kid my grandma used to say “a messy bed makes a messy mind.” Or something like that. My bed was always messy so I may have garbled the message.

But the point is that you can think more clearly when your bed is made. You’re not wasting mental energy thinking bout what needs to be done. You’re not wasting background mental power focused on a tangle of sheets and blankets. I’m not really sure why my bed was so messy that “a tangle of sheets and blankets” was an appropriate descriptor. 

I think that message extends to the rest of the home too. When your bed is a wreck, you can’t think straight. When your home is in shambles, you can’t live straight. 

So, I guess if we’re to take anything from this post about getting a larger place, it’s this:

clean your room.

Why Every Man Needs A Custom Suit

The first time I tried on my very own custom suit, it felt like I sprouted my first chest hair. Is this what being a man feels like? It’s strange and good. Also… Will I ever get more?

It was a cool autumn day—I think, I actually don’t remember, but for the sake of this article let’s go with a cool autumn day—and I was in Philadelphia for work. I hate everything about Philadelphia [it's a trash town and it knows it] except two things: it was where our country became a country, and it’s where my tailor lives. 

I’d met with my Michael, my tailor, several weeks prior for the measurement and selection ceremony, during which time he took approximately two thousand measurements of my body—most of parts I didn’t know I had—and guided me through the selection process. 

The selection process was straightforward. When he asked “what would you like?” my answer was “a suit,” his indication that this particular client would need a LOT of guidance and that this particular selection process would be anything but straightforward. 

I choose everything from vents, lapel width, lapel type, buttons on cuffs, whether the buttons were functional. That part was strange to me. Why on earth would you have buttons on a suit if they weren’t functional? Also, why have buttons on the suit in the first place? My tailor explained that they were originally for surgeons, who, at the time, wore suits instead of scrubs and needed their sleeves to roll up because they’d often be elbow deep in blood. 

I may have embellished that memory slightly. Or not. It is a memory after all and you’ll never know what really happened! But I digress.

My favorite part was picking the fabric. Selecting a fabric is very tactile. You must feel samples of every single fabric, noting warp and weave and patterns and colors. Herringbone vs houndstooth vs sharkskin vs melange. I couldn’t see or feel any difference, but I didn’t want Michael to know that, so I took what I thought to be an appropriate amount of time selecting my fabric. 

6 hours later I’d selected my fabric and we were in business. After that, we sipped our G&Ts and I vowed to learn the appropriate plural form of gin and tonic so that I’d never have to write G&Ts again. As you can see, I failed.

Now, back to the trying on ceremony. 

I should point out that every step of this process feels like a ceremony. It feels important. It IS important—each point is designed as a checkpoint and gate for both tailor and customer so that both are on the same page. The suit is customized and expensive; one small mistake on either part could be costly. So care must be taken at every step. Which is why we only had gins and tonics before, during, and after each step; we didn’t want our faculties clouded with any of the strong stuff. 

Now, the big question: WHY must a man have a custom suit. Because each man is individual. Each man is unique. And each man thinks he is better than all other men. No two of us are alike, thus no two of us could wear the same suit and believe ourselves superior to our brother. So we must have custom suiting. At least one custom suit. They are expensive after all. And we’re not all Rockfellers [thank the gods; they used to summer in Rhode Island like common fishermen].

Also, men are, at our cores, barbarians. Many of us—myself excluded [refer to the superior part above]—still cannot remember to wash our hands after handling our business. A suit reminds us that we cannot be barbarians at all times. We can, and should, dress us on occasion [daily], and prove to the world that we are worthy of the role we have in society—to lift heavy things and grab oatmeal from the high shelf. 

Custom does not mean Brooks Brothers. Though Brooks Brothers does offer several wonderful suits that can only be described as boxy and boring, those aren’t the suits you’re looking for. They’re great if you’re shaped like a square. But you’re anything but a square. It’s okay, you can admit it, men have curves too. Fine, we’ll call them angles. Regardless, don’t buy Brooks Brothers.

Men’s Wearhouse offers cheap clothing that often looks as nice as Brooks Brothers. I would recommend them either, no matter how appealing they look given your budget. (I’m assuming you’re on a very tight budget, otherwise no man in his right mind would shop there.) I bought from them when I was in college. I went in wanting one suit and the [gifted] salesman convinced me I wanted two, because then I could mix and match everything so I'd have 12 different outfits. I wasn't a math major, but it sounded fishy. But i was too dazzled by the fact that I was buying 12 outfits for the price of 2 to realize I was buying very cheap clothing.

“What’s wrong with cheap?” You might ask. 

Very good question. 

Cheap is hot. Cheap wrinkles easily. Cheap looks…cheap. 

For the price I paid for the two suits, 6 shirts, and 2 ties, I could have purchased one suit, two shirts, and one tie. 

The catch?

They would have all been nice.

Nice suits breath better. Nice suits wrinkle less easily. Nice fits look…nice.

They also fit much better. They conform to your body. They look nice on you, specifically.

And nice is a great way to present yourself to the world. 

That’s why every man should get a custom suit. Because he’s worth it. And he should be proud of himself enough to dress nicely.

UPDATE

I have a new tailor now who, unfortunately, ALSO lives in Philly. But he still comes to the city. I bought six suits and as many shirts from him and he’s fantastic. Drop me a line if you’d like an intro. I get a free shirt out of it, but even if I didn't, I’d still recommend him; he’s that good.

My Favorite Hike In New Hampshire

A bit about my favorite [and the only] hike I’ve done in New Hampshire.

West Rattlesnake Mountain, Holderness, New Hampshire.

MAP IT

HIKE IT

I’m a little nervous. It’s been ages since I took my wife hiking. And last time I may have told her it was just a few miles when it was really closer to seven. If a man’s going to lie about the length of anything, the least bad thing is the length of a hike.

And the elevation gain.

But at least I brought sandwiches!

We’ve been driving around on side roads just south of the White Mountains in New Hampshire. It’s autumn so the foliage is in full force, but late autumn, and just after a storm, so it looks a little worse for wear. The trees look like they’re on a walk of shame—they’ve seen better days, but they’re still beautiful.

The GPS leads my to our final turn and we pull into the gravel driveway that leads to a gravel parking lot. It’s really just more of a gravel-covered graded clearing in the forest. So New Hampshire. There’s only one other car in the lot—which makes sense because we’re past peak foliage. We’re visiting during the part of the year that locals call stick season. That’s how locals name seasons in New Hampshire. There’s leaf season, stick season, mud season, and summer.

We get out and put Bailey on her on her tether. It seems unnecessary considering there’s only one, maybe two other hikers on the trail, but we generally follow the rules when it comes to social customs.

We get to the trailhead and remove Bailey’s leash. No sense in hemming in the old girl if she wants to run. Did I mention she’s a 13-year-old Pomeranian and looks like a fluffy orange cotton ball with anxiety?

We walk. It’s chilly, but our bodies warm up quickly since the first mile of this out-and-back one [three] mile hike is straight uphill.

After a short way we encounter the owners of the car. They’re a nice couple from Ohio. Every year they fly into Boston and drive up to Acadia National Park, then down to New Hampshire, and then back to Boston for their own fall foliage trip. They’re nice, in a friends-of-your-parents kind of way. We pass them and continue onward.

I think I’ve put enough distance between us, so I whip out my drone and buzz him—his name’s Darryl—up and down the trail. I want to capture some footage of us walking in the woods. After nearly ramming him into more than a few trees, I hear the other couple approaching. Darryl puts out a decent amount of noise, so I land and stow him.

Lauren and I turn around and start to turn back. We’ve come far enough and we’re hungry. We talk to the couple for a few minutes and mention we’re turning back. They convince us to continue onward because there’s a view ahead.

“How much farther?” we ask, like we were kids in the backseat on a road trip.

“A couple hundred yards. Can’t be more than 5 minutes.”

I can do a few hundred yards. I can do five minutes. Especially if a couple in their 60s is pushing on without breaking a sweat.

We combine our parties and the four of us hike on. Exactly 5 minutes later we arrive at a clearing. The view is beautiful. I scramble atop a few large boulders to get a better view. I look around for Lauren and Bailey, but they’ve wandered ahead. Maybe Bailey had to pee. Maybe Lauren did too.

I see Squam Lake in full autumnal glory. The yellows and oranges are so vivid, accented by dots of green where the occasional evergreen stands. The other man informs us this is where On Golden Pond was filmed. Cool. I ask him if he minds if I launch my drone. He doesn’t mind.

Quite the opposite, actually. He scrambles up the boulders and checks out my screen. How does he scramble? He’s 60! He asks a bunch of questions in the way that guys do when they see another guy playing with something cool.

“What’s the range on that thing?”
”A few miles.”
”Mmm hmm.”

Lauren and Bailey return.

“Um, there’s another view just over there,” Lauren says. She points to another clearing.

“Is it better than this one?” I ask. I figure this is as good as it gets.

She’s already running ahead to tire out Bailey. As a dog owner, there’s nothing better than seeing your pup totally pooped out and curled up in a tiny ball at the end of the day. We thought the hike would do it, but her batteries still seem pretty full.

I run to catch up.

Holy schnikes. This view is much better. I’d later find out after reading about this that this is the view, the one everybody hikes it for. Nobody stops at the first clearing.

I see all of Squam Lake, including several little islands decked out in their fall foliage best. I launch the drone again, being sure to take both photo and video. This might be the best view I’ve ever seen, and the four of us—six if you count Bailey and Darryl—have it all to ourselves.

After a half hour of taking it in, and me running back and forth from my tripod to Lauren and Bailey—gotta get those family photos for the ‘gram—we take the other couple’s picture and they disappear.

We don’t see them at all on the hike back. Which is surprising. We’re fast hikes and they have grandkids. Their car isn’t there when we get back to the lot.

“Were they ghosts?” I ask. There’s no way they got back that fast.
“Angels,” Lauren says.

Were they sent for the specific purpose of pushing us up the mountain? Maybe. Without them we wouldn’t have seen the view. And, while the journey was nice, the destination made it all worth it.

I ponder the philosophical meanings of that statement until my hunger whips me back to reality. We’ve got ribs and whiskey waiting for us back at our lodgings.

My Two Favorite Tools For Capturing New Ideas

My two favorite tools for capturing new ideas. 

1. Rhodia pocket notebook.

2. Sakura Microperm 01 Pen.

3. Bear.

Lauren drags me into Blick, one of her favorite art stores in the city. After a few minutes following her around looking at Things, I get turned around and start wandering around like a lost toddler. A small part of me feels like I’ve lost my mom—less in a “my wife is like my mom” way and more in the “I lost my only connection to the outside world in this scary place” kind of way. There are so many art supplies.

I look around for someone who works there, someone who could take me to Lost and Found and announce over the PA system that there is a lost boy looking for his wife, but I can’t find anyone. I sweat a little with worry and eventually find solace playing with things on shelves. 

First stop, notebooks. I didn’t know there were so many different kinds of notebooks. There are some with lines, some without. Some with vellum covers. Some that have see through pages. I don’t know why you’d want see through pages unless you want the notes you’re taking to be little more transparent. 

I find myself drawn to Rhodia notebooks. Partially because I don’t know how to pronounce the brand name—is it Roh-DEE-uh or ROH-dee-ua?—but also because it feels like a quality notebook. I snatch one, hoping to purchase it if I ever find the checkout stand. Maybe I could tear pages to use as breadcrumbs like Hansel and Gretel. Maybe I should look for a pen. That way I can leave a note to whoever finds my body long after I’ve died in here.

The pen aisles—yes aisles—are enormous. They look like endless server racks in some underground data center in rural New Mexico. Is that even a thing? Am I still in Blick? Little pads of paper dot the shelves in front of the pens. Is this where people leave their goodbye notes in case they don’t make it out? I search the floor for the skeletons of other husbands who were dragged into Blick, who got lost and, in a futile effort to leave a note to posterity, found their way to the pen aisle and left their Last Words. I sweat more. This is where I die.

Better write a note to say my goodbyes. I grab a pen and scribble something. I don’t like the tip. What number is this? An 03? Too clumsy. I try a Sakura Microperm 02. Getting warmer. I find it’s smaller 01 brother and write “I’ll always love you, Wiff.” The perfection with which the pen writes gives me a sense of hope. I’ll likely die here, but at least I can write my will with a beautiful pen. I take the pen with me.

I round the corner and move to the next aisle. Notebooks. How did I get back here? I look for my breadcrumbs. Realize I left none. I am doomed. I look up and notice a figure midway down the aisle. Is that another cutout of Bob Ross telling me that there are no mistakes, just happy little accidents? Was it a happy little accident for me to come in here, Bob? Or was it a mistake considering I now know where I perish? There’s light coming from the other end of the aisle. I squint to see if it’s Bob. 

It’s moving. I see the figure. She’s moving. Even if it’s not Wiff, maybe she could help me, an angel sent from above, wherever Bob Ross is. I run toward her. She turns around. It’s Wiff! Hallelujah! I hug her like she’s just returned from war, tell her about the catacombs and the minotaur—there was a minotaur, right?—and we head toward the checkout stand. 

I buy the notebook and the pen as a souvenir of my ordeal. 

Which I now use whenever I want to record a new idea. 

I love the notebook (👈🏾 affiliate link) because it’s small enough to fit in any of my pockets. 

I love the pen (👈🏾 affiliate link) because the ink flows perfectly—just enough make the idea feel solid, but not soo much that it gets messy.

And if I ever forget them, I use Bear on my iPhone. It’s the only app in my drawer, or whatever Apple call the area at the bottom of the home screen. I can tap it and add a new idea in seconds. Check it out here.

I'm a Happy Camper

Only the essentials. Like Champagne.

My wife and I just got back from camping, or as I like to call it, “let’s listen to other families fight in the woods.”

We haven’t been camping in years and we forgot how much we liked it. And our campground was full, so clearly other people love it too. It got me thinking, “why do we love camping so much?”

Because by all accounts, we shouldn’t.

The fact that we leave perfectly good homes—with indoor plumbing and central air—to live in the woods, baffles me. I much prefer flushing toilets and AC to Port-a-potties and swampy tent must.

But we still go camping.

And love it.

Why?!?

Maybe it’s the old idea of “you don’t know what you got until it’s gone.” Head to the woods to live in relative hardship to better appreciate the crap we’ve accumulated. So we take it all away and head to the woods. To reenact frontier living. “Tonight we’re having whatever Pa caught with potatoes covered in cheese. The cheese’ll help with the constipation.”

I don’t know…I could turn off my phone for a day if I wanted to try the simple life. Camping seems like a lot of work just to appreciate a king sized mattress. So I don’t think that’s why we like it.

Smart people who write books say that humans crave nature, that returning to the ancestral landscape in which we evolved—anywhere with trees—puts us at ease. Okay. Maybe. It’s true we spent most of our history living in trees and roaming the plains. Which sounds nice until you remember that we also faced constants threats…from everything. If you got too cold, you’d die. If you got too hot, you’d die. If you saw a lion, a saber-toothed tiger, or really, any animal with teeth or horns, you’d die. Even if you drank the wrong water, you’d face a long bout of tummy troubles and other GI gurgles, and then you’d die. Our ancestral home wasn’t a walk in the park.

And also, we didn’t go back. Once we left the trees and the plains, we didn’t go home. We discovered fire, came down from the trees, and built cities—which, yeah, are kinda like forests made of big metal trees.

Based on how relaxed I am out in the woods, I think the smart people who write books are right. I just think humans have selective memory about the good old days. We remember how great it felt to be in nature, but we forget about all the disentry.

Plus, if camping is a way to get back to our roots, this time we’re ready for the dangers. It’s like we’re going home to the small town we’re from, but on our own terms.

We buy all sorts of special equipment—a tent, bear canisters, DEET—and haul it into nature, to separate ourselves from nature. It’s like we want to be near wildlife, but if it gets too close, we’ll kill it.

Camping also gets us out of our routine. We do things camping we would normally never do. You pitch a tent, start a fire, and roast marshmallows. And then giggle because you just said “pitch a tent.” Those aren’t daily things. Well, the giggling is, but I’m have the sense of humor of an 11 year old.

Some families gather around the fire and sing. Those families are weird. No one is supposed to have that much fun. You’re supposed to eat too many hotdogs and spend the night farting in your tent.

There’s no greater test of manhood than building a fire. I build a fire just like early humans did: with copious amounts of lighter fluid. There’s something about sitting around a camp fire that makes me feel like I’m communing with our ancestors, doing everything they, did like roasting marshmallows.

It’s not hard to roast a marshmallow. But I don’t have the patience to do it right. Here’s how I roast a marshmallow. I put it on a stick. Put it in the fire. And then cry as the entire thing goes up in flames. It goes in an innocent white puff comes out black molten lava. It looks like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man’s turds.

Does anyone actually know what marshmallows are? It’s just sugar and magic, right? They’re sweet white balls that turn into sticky sugar boogers that incinerate the second you get them near a fire.

Everyone is required to make a s’mores, which sound like a dirty Italian word. “Hey, you wanna, ‘make a s’more?’ hehehe.”

And then, after you’ve had your fill, you turn in for my favorite part of all: Sleep.

And really, there’s nothing better than falling asleep to the sounds of another campsite’s generator. Or listening to a family argue about an issue they thought was resolved years ago but they just remembered because wine.

Yes, the joys of camping. Sleeping under the stars…in a humid swamp box…made with flammable walls…pitched precariously close to a fire. You’re one flying ember away from adding a sunroof.

You know what. I never answered why we love camping so much. I’ll tell you why I love it. I love the smell of a campfire. The taste of s’more. The quietude of sleeping under the stars. I love living a simpler life. At least for a few days. And then I need to get back to the internet. So I can post this blog post.

How To Visit NYC's Top of The Rock

The short version:

1. Buy tickets here.

2. Arrive at your designated time.

3. Best pictures (no glass) are on the SW corner of the upper upper deck.

4. Don’t forget the back side! (the north side).

5. Bring snacks.

6. No tripods allowed, except little guys like these (👈🏾 affiliate link) and these (👈🏾 affiliate link).

The Long Version:

First things first, plan your trip. Do you want to see sunset? Do you want to see the pretty lights on in the buildings? Or do you want full sun and puffy clouds? [Yes, yes, and yes.]

Plan on it taking an hour from your reservation time to the moment you snap your first photo. That’s the time it takes to wind through all the lines, their souvenir photo area [which you can skip] where they take a photo of you in front of a backdrop, and fighting through crowds to the top deck. Subtract an hour from the time you want to snap your first shot; that’s your reservation time.

Sunset was 8:18pm on the day I took the photo at top. I wanted to take photos during golden hour (7:39-8:37), sunset (8:18), and blue hour (8:37-8:49). To be safe, I booked tickets at for a 6:25 reservation. This was the right choice.

I was early and couldn’t get in. I arrived at 6:00 and the gentleman manning the front door suggested I “head inside the NBC building next door because the AC is much better than sweating through your shorts out here; visit the stores—but don’t buy anything, it’s way too expensive, and use the restroom and then, at 6:25, come back and I’ll let you back in.” It was the nicest way I’ve been told No ever.

Be patient as you wind your way through the maze and, if you’re visiting in the summer, mouth breathe [lots of B.O.]. And be nice to the guards. Despite having to herd tourists [without a cattle prod] the guards keep smiling and joke with people. That surprised me…they’re all funny.

Once you’re at the top, don't stop at the first floor observation deck. This is where a LOT of people hang out, but it’s also where the glass partitions separate you from the Manhattan skyline (and from taking great pictures). You didn’t come here to take pictures with a billion other tourists slobbering on a glass partition. You came for Glory. GO ALL THE WAY up.

Follow the signs for the escalators leading up. It’s worth it.

Find a view you like, setup your mini tripod on one of the concrete pads, and wait. I stood in the same spot from 7:00 to 9pm and was super happy with the shots I got.

The best location for taking south-facing photos is the SW corner of the upper upper third floor. You can take photos elsewhere on the third floor, but with a wide angle you can see the partitions and the tops of tourists’ heads. The SW corner removes most of the distractions and gives you the clearest shots of the city.

View fullsize

[Click me!]

View fullsize

Show the backside some love! [Click me!]

Don’t forget the backside! The views there are incredible as well. (See below.) I shot this from the top deck as I was looking winding my way through the hoards of people. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? SAY IT’S BEAUTIFUL.

Once you get into position, park yourself there and enjoy the view. The lights change from afternoon haze to golden pastel hues to deep blues.

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

How to Shoot Amazing Top-Down Drone Panoramas

I FINALLY remembered a cool trick to taking cool drone pictures a few days ago in New Orleans. The picture above is what came out of it.

Here’s how I did it…

IN THE DRONE

I pointed the camera straight down, set my exposure (1/160 @ 2.8, 400 ISO, if you’re curious) and started strafing. I aligned my drone with the tennis courts—so the drone was pointing UP in this image—and then strafed right, firing off a few shots along the way. There was a decent amount of overlap in each image. I probably had 50% of the image overlapping onto the next one, but you needn’t take so many photos. Once I’d gotten one row, I moved the drone forward (UP in this image) and went back along the next row.

In Lightroom

Just pop open Lightroom, select the images you want to stick together, and click Photo >> Photo Merge >> Panorama. Et voila!

You can recreate the image (minus my retouching and cropping) using the source files here:

Get The Source Files

Happy shooting!

My Favorite New Orleans Bars and Restaurants

If you listen close enough, you can hear their shoes stick to the sidewalks…

If you listen close enough, you can hear their shoes stick to the sidewalks…

Going to New Orleans? You’re gonna need a plan.

Here’s a list of my favorite bars and restaurants to help you eat and drink your way throughout. Which is the only way to do New Orleans.

This list is not exhaustive. There are obviously more restaurants in New Orleans. But my stomach only has enough room for so much food [and bottomless cocktail] so I can’t review everything. This also isn’t a complete list of every New Orleans restaurant I’ve been to. Some didn’t make the cut. In lieu of trash talking them here, I’ve elected to only highlight those that are worth a visit.

Want to see ALL the locations on one Big map?

Click here.

*I have not been to a few of these, but they came so highly recommended that I’ve added them for your benefit. These are denoted with an asterisk.

**Special thanks for my cousin Vinnie [not kidding] for originally sending me almost all of these recommendations.

My Perfect New Orleans Afternoon

The Sazerac Bar

Grab a drink or three here, the earlier the better as it can and will get crowded. It opens at 11am but won’t get crowded until 4 or 5, so you’ll have plenty of time to sleep in from whatever you got into the night prior. Or, if you were out really late, then come here to tie one on. When you’re done at Sazerac, take a lap around the inside of The Roosevelt Hotel. It’s beautiful, especially around Christmastime. Then head next door to…

Ah…home, sweet home.

Ah…home, sweet home.

Domenica

For pizza, pasta, and a great wine menu. If you make it in time for happy hour—daily from 2pm to 6pm—you’ll be treated to half off their amazing pizzas. It’s worth it even if you miss happy hour though. The pizzas are some of the best I’ve ever had. And get the cauliflower. You need more veggies. Once you’ve had your fill here, head towards the river to…

Cafe du Monde

For beignets and coffee. Don’t wait for a table. No one will seat you. It’s seat yourself! Cash only [my nightmare] but worth it.

The Full List

Domenica

Central Business District

(504) 648-6020

domenicarestaurant.com | menu | map

Wiff and I go here several times whenever we’re in town. It’s one of our favorites. Italianish with a bit of mediterranean / Israeli influence. Pizza is awesome, cauliflower is incredible. Pastas are also fantastic. Wine list is great. HH is half-off pizzas.

The Sazerac Bar

Central Business District

(504) 648-1200

website | menu | map

Super classy cocktail bar in a super classy hotel. Drinks are fantastic. I love coming here at 3pm before all the other tourists take it over. It gets loud after 7pm.

This posed picture would have been better had I not slammed the entire cocktail first.

This posed picture would have been better had I not slammed the entire cocktail first.

Cafe du Monde

French Quarter

(504) 525-4544

cafedumonde.com | map

The later in the day you go, the better. Tourists think that beignets are like donuts, and thus only eat them for breakfast. So the lines can get pretty long during the day. Go later in the evening. Make it your last stop before turning in for the night. Do whatever you have to do to avoid long lines here. Beignets are good, but not wait-in-a-line good.

Herbsaint

Central Business District

(504) 524-4114

herbsaint.com | menu | map

This is another one we visit every time we’re in town [we’re creatures of habit]. I ordered the hanger steak and a rum old fashioned the first time I dined at Herbsaint and it was so perfect I dragged Wiff here for dinner that night. We usually split several small plates for variety, but their mains are delicious. The restauranteur behind Herbsaint is Donald Link, one of apparently only two restauranteurs in town.

Peche

Central Business District

(504) 522-1744

pecherestaurant.com | menu | map

Donald Link. Seafood focused. Very good.

Cochon

Central Business District

(504) 588-2123

cochonrestaurant.com | menu | map

Donald Link. 🐖-focused. Very good.

Gianna

Central Business District

(504) 399-0816

giannarestaurant.com | menu | map

Donald Link. Italian focused. Pretty good. We went to here two weeks after they opened. The service was great. The food was okay. Don’t get the homemade mozzarella balls. They’re tiny and tasteless. The cheese bread was great, as were all the pastas we tasted.

Cochon Butcher*

Central Business District

(504) 588-7675

cochonbutcher.com | menu | map

Donald Link. Like Cochon, but it’s a walk up counter for take away service. I haven’t been, but have heard great things.

Maypop

Central Business District

(504) 518-6345

maypoprestaurant.com | menu | map

Southern-Asian fusion. One of the two or three New Orleans restaurants that isn’t a Donald Link joint. Wiff went here for a work lunch and raved about it. I definitely wasn’t not jealous that she went before me. Fried oysters are 👍.

Longway Tavern

French Quarter

(504) 962-9696

longwaytavern.com | menu | map

From the folks behind Sylvain. Casual bar with outdoor patio in back. Great drinks. Fun vibe. Haven’t had the food but the menu looks good. Happy Hour drinks are tasty and cheap. $5 for a Sidecar? YES PLEASE.

I love me some happy hour Sidecars.

I love me some happy hour Sidecars.

Sylvain

French Quarter

(504) 265-8123

sylvainnola.com | menu | map

Semi-trendy, good cocktails and everything from fried chicken (amazing) to gnocchi to a bolognese. Smaller spot with cool patio in back.

Shaya*

(504) 891-4213

shayarestaurant.com | menu | map

I haven’t been, but here’s a note from my cousin Vinnie [still not kidding], a Nola resident:

“Best new restaurant in America." Maybe overhyping a tad but the pita is so good it will ruin all other pita for u. A lot of small plates so fun to go with other people and order everything. Lamb entree is fantastic. Shaya is Alon Shaya's place, chef at Domenica. It's another Besh place.

Hola.

Hola.

Johnny Sanchez

Central Business District

(504) 304-6615

map

This is a joint venture between John Besh (the “Johnny” half) and Aaron Sánchez (the Mexican half). Fantastic Mexican food. The best goat tacos I’ve ever had. [Also the only goat tacos I’ve ever had.]

Lüke

Central Business District

(504) 378-2840

lukeneworleans.com | menu | map

Another Besh place. Seafood. Great oyster happy hour.

So there you have it.

I’ll update this list as often as I see fit. If you have any recommendations, don’t hesitate to drop them in the comments below!

Watch Me Interview My Wife for USA Today

A few months ago I got to interview my wife, Lauren Layne, for USA Today [yes, THE USA Today]. It was one of the more fun projects I’ve ever worked on. Check out the video below, and the article by Mary Dubé here.

[I’m on the left.]

My Favorite Photography Spots in Paris

This is a list of some of my favorite photo-worthy spots in Paris. It’s not comprehensive. There are more beautiful places in Paris than those listed below.
Feel free to suggest your favorite spots in the comments below.

[Click on the photos for larger views…]

The Louvre Pyramids

I went to the Louvre pyramids twice, once around 2pm on our first day, and again at dawn on our penultimate day. If you go during normal hours, be aware that the entire place will be full of people. There will be dozens and dozens of people hopping up onto the stands to take their “my finger’s on the tip of the pyramid” shot.

These pictures were taken around 7:00am local time. I had the entire place to myself. And it was glorious.

The Eiffel Tower

You have two choices: go to the Eiffel Tower or, wherever you find yourself in the city, look up. Both are great.

If you want some alone time with her, you best go at dawn. The second image here—the blue one—was taken at 7:30am local time.

Arc de Triomphe

I didn’t think the Arc was going to be cool. I was wrong. It’s pretty impressive up close. I’m kicking myself for not going up into it and taking a picture of the city. The views I’ve seen on other photography websites are beautiful.

Before you go up, you can check the wait times here.

The Arc is in the middle of a giant traffic circle connecting 12 streets. You can sit down and watch the cars and busses do their dance. During red lights, you can take angsty photos like we did.

Jardin de Tuileries
(Tuileries Garden)

This is one of the most beautiful parks/gardens I’ve ever seen. Go here. Have wine. Be happy.

Le Village Royal

In general, pretty places are crowded. And everywhere in Paris is pretty. Ergo, everywhere in Paris is crowded. But if you’re patient you can find a break in the instagrammer traffic and get yourself a nice little snapshot. We popped into Le Village Royal—an outdoor mall—on our afternoon walk back to our hotel. It wasn’t easy snapping these two shots among all the other people taking their obligatory “grab the umbrella” picture—especially considering they were the only thing between us and getting back to our hotel for happy hour.

Musèe d’Orsay

Wiff and I aren’t museum people. Which is to say, we hate museums. We just don’t get them.
This is us in a museum:
”Huh. Okay.” [move to next piece]
”Mmm. Okay.” [move to next piece]

The Musèe d’Orsay was the only museum we visited. And even then, it was mainly for the architecture of the building itself. It’s beautiful. Do yourself a favor and look up Courbet’s L'origin du Monde.

Sacré-Cœur

The structure itself is a bit bulbous, but the views are pretty cool. I read AFTER I’d left that you can go up to the top of the Coeur, which I’d imagine would make for a much better view.

I hope to god that the creepy carousel in the park at the base of Le Coeur is just down for the season. Rundown carousels always freak me out. 🎶…do DO do doo do Do do doo…🎶

I Deleted Instagram. Here's What Happened.

This is not me. I don’t speak Czech…

Did you like that cringe-worthy Washington Post style clickbait title? Pretty enticing, right?

[UPDATE! I wrote this in March of 2019, but have since deleted my Instagram account altogether. So...read on if you'd like to understand the freedom I felt in merely deleting the app from my phone. I'm working on an article about quitting social media entirely and will update this page when it's finished.]

Imagine a world in which you disengage from all the terrible stuff on social media, but you still participate in the wonderful, beautiful, content-generation side of social media [selfies].

Ahh… digital Shangri la.

I like contributing content for brand-building purposes. I want people to find me, my comedy, my writings, my cocktails, my recipes… But I don’t want spend hours mindlessly flipping through what Instagram thought was best for me. Which is exactly what I was doing. Every morning. Every night. In between sets at the gym. While other people were talking at me.

I could have unfollowed everyone. But that's like an eight-cocktails-in decision. [For reference, willingly seeing a movie in a theater is a two-cocktail decision; making brunch plans is a three-cocktail decision, and choosing to get a tattoo is a twelve-cocktail decision.]

The next best thing was deleting Instagram.

Here’s what happened…

I started reading more.

Whenever I had a free nanosecond, I’d pop open my phone and open Instagram. I wasn’t actually doing anything in Instagram. I’d just mindlessly flip through pictures.

I only follow about a hundred people, so there’s not much new stuff happening every second. I told this once to a friend. She told me to follow more people. I told her to… Actually, what I told her is neither important nor g-rated.

So I deleted the app.

And then I needed something to fill The Void.

So I started reading more.

When I’m between sets in the gym, instead of Instagram I now read a few paragraphs.

The moment I wake up, instead of ‘gramming, I’m reading. You get the picture.

I still posted.

Did you know you can post to Instagram without being in Instagram? I use Planoly to schedule all my posts. It’s as easy as dragging and dropping images into the web app (or iPhone/Android app), adding a caption/tags/hashtags/etc, and then scheduling it.

Another option is Tailwind. I’ve used them for Instagram posting in the past, but I like Planoly a bit better. I still use Tailwind to automate all my Pinterest activity.

The beautiful thing is you can still share what you want to share [selfies, sunsets, and shots at the bar], but you don’t have to listen to all the crap out there. It’s heaven. Really.

My iPhone battery never got below 95%

I deleted Instagram. I’m not sure what to do with my iPhone now. Why even have one?

Wiff also deleted Instagram. You can read her thoughts on it here.

Leno & Seinfeld Together Does Not Suck

I did stand-up at Gotham Comedy Club earlier this week. [My set was awesome, thanks for asking.]

I was about to leave when the producer of the show said, “DON’T GO.” [He generally speaks in all caps.] And then he winked at me.

I’m not unaccustomed to people winking at me—it’s the price I pay for being beautiful—but this wink was a weird wink. It wasn’t a “hey sweetheart, would you like a drink” wink. It was a “stick around for a surprise” kind of wink.

I don’t know why he didn’t just say “don’t leave the club because we’ve got two surprise guests coming.” I think saying it would have been easier than winking, not to mention a lot less creepy.

Next thing I know, Jay Leno and Jerry Seinfeld come into the club and sit a few feet in front of me.

Jay and Jerry, sitting in a tree…

Jay got up first and did 15 minutes. I think. It could have been 20? I don’t know. All I know is that he told jokes and they were funny.

He opened with some older, proven material and then did some new stuff [I gave him my notes]. I really hope he’s got a new special coming.

And then he introduced the next comic, a “young guy I recently discovered…I know you’re doing gonna love him…give it up for Jerry Seinfeld!”

From L to R: Jay Leno, Jerry Seinfeld, Microphone

And then Jerry did 15-20 minutes. Much of it was the same as the material in his Jerry Before Seinfeld special on Netflix, but it was still incredible to watch.

The two of those guys performing back to back made me want to throw out my entire act [don’t worry, World, I’m not doing that yet!] and work 100X harder on all new material.

If you haven’t been to Gotham, there’s a very funny comic who’s going to be there 4/12 and 4/13. I’ll be there twice in the next two weeks working out some new material. Come on down!

What about you?

Who are your favorite comedians [besides moi]? Who have you seen recently that you thought was awesome, whether live or on Netflix?

[Btw, comics, here’s how you can book a show at Gotham.]