An Open Letter to Papa Johns

Dear Papa Johns,

You make it way to easy to order food from you late at night. First, I am tired and don’t want to leave my cardboard walled apartment in the most ghetto building in all of Brentwood, Calif. I know it’s in Brentwood so it should be a nice place but it’s got a mold problem and ever since the gypsy squatter lived here it’s smelled like vegan food (raw garbage if you’re wondering what that smells like).

Second, online ordering leaves me from talking to people. I hate people and you know that Papa. Of course I have to interact with one of your employees who delivers me a box full of lazy when the moon is full and the fog is thick. But the interaction is a small price to pay when your employees so adeptly avoid eye contact with my face. They’ve got a deadline Papa, and they know it well. Bravo.

Third, your “Repeat Last Order” red button on the upper right hand corner of my screen is very inviting. Good show, Papa, you’ve tapped into the vegetable-like twenty-something demographic all with nothing more than color and the ability to recall one’s last meal. I commend you for this and please award whomever on your team brewed up the idea. There are so many words and choices on your homepage that I’m glad all I’ve ever had to do is make one choice of meal. I’m never in the mood for something else, Papa, and you know that.

Thank you.



Ok Go’s Rube Goldberg Device

I want to figure out how to do this–I am not sure how yet. But I want to do this.

Paul Hunts ‘Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson’

There is this musical on at the Public Theater in New York right now called “Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson.” It’s a coming of age story about Andrew Jackson being an emo, whiny, little bitch–all set to rock music. I haven’t even seen it but I’ve been emailing and calling the Public Theater for the date the album goes on sale. Here is video about it from WNYC:

Oh, I don’t want anyone to mistake that I am a fan of Jackson. He was terrible.

Jonah Leher is on Paul’s Dinner Party List

I’ve been in my head lately and have thought a lot about decisions and deciding. Jonah Leher has a new book out called ‘How We Decide’ that I think is really interesting:

Jonah Lehrer is pathologically indecisive.

“I found myself spending literally a half an hour, 30 minutes, in the cereal aisle of the supermarket, trying to choose between boxes of Cheerios,” he says. “That’s when I realized I had a problem.”

The struggle over cereal led Lehrer to contemplate much bigger questions — like what was actually happening in his head as he stood in the cereal aisle, and how much of that was rational versus emotional.

Finally, he decided to write a book about it. In How We Decide, Lehrer explores the science of how we make decisions and what we can do to make those decisions better.

Oh and also, Leher looks like he drinks Pabst–just like I do.

Paul Gets a Life

My improv coach, Jill Alexander, has had everyone on Cakewalk study a piece of American history. Why? We are taking a shot at “Getting a Life.” We aren’t abandoning our study of improv as an art form, just pressing pause. Jill wrote a blog post for the blog over at U.S. Rock and Roll that I think explains it better than I can:

Beyond exposing yourself to as many ideas about improv as you can wrap your brain around, you can become a better player by Getting A Life.

Yes, pursuing further knowledge of the art is both noble and worthwhile. But you’ve got to do something besides just improvise. First off, you’ll starve. Secondly, your existence will fold in on itself and collapse. No joke.

The best improvisers I know are those who are well informed about the world. Having a general knowledge of current events, history, and literature will afford you a wealth of information that you can tap into if only to get your lizard-brain started. Your more evolved improv-brain will take over from there and fill in the blanks.

Listen to NPR. Pick up a newspaper. Read a book. Oh, and before you get that tattoo of your theater’s logo, hold on a sec. You’re an improviser, right? I bet you can think of something more original…

And so it shall be. Just for kicks I typed in the word “cults” into TED, the smarty pants website with talks from professors and experts all over the world imparting their knowledge to internet surfers. I found an ex-Moonie talking about what was scientifically going on in her brain when she was a part of a cult. I had a nerd parade brain explosion inside my head after seeing this:

My favorite quote:

These easy ideas to complex questions are very appealing when you are emotionally venerable.

Paul is Not in a Good Mood

I had a show tonight at I.O. with my Harold team, “Cakewalk” and it went well. The team got laughs; I even got a few. I should feel great, but I feel hopelessly lousy for some reason. I’ve never felt like this before.

Paul Didn’t Loose His Hat

I went to Copper, Colorado, for Christmas with my family. I fell down on a snowboard and got up so many times that I think I can safely stay away from working out for a while. We had a layover on the way back to Los Angeles in Salt Lake City, Utah.

It was snowing when my family got on the plane in Salt Lake City. We sat on the tarmac for at least an hour waiting to take off and then waiting for the plane to be deiced. The older gentlemen sitting on the aisle in my row was boring the fancy lady from Laguna Beach next to me with his stories about sailing, latitude, longitude and about six different wars.

The plane began to take off, getting faster and faster. Just as we were about to pull up into orbit a stewardess ran down the aisle with an oxygen tank. Everyone around me looked over their right shoulders to see what was a matter.

“That’s my Dad,” I said out loud.

“You lost your hat? Well, just look for it later,” said the older gentleman.

“No, that’s his father,” said the fancy lady (Her name I latter found out was Annette).

My Dad was hunched over his seat, eyes glazed over and white as a ghost. My Mom was sitting next to him patting his face and trying to get him to wake up. The stewardess asked if there was a doctor on the plane and two people rushed over to my Dad’s seat.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re going to be going back to the terminal because of a medical emergency,” said the captain over the loud speaker.

My eyes were transfixed on my dad’s bobbling head sitting in his seat.

“Wait, that’s your Dad?” said a man in the row behind me.

“Yes, that’s his father,” said the fancy lady.

The man scrunched up his face and shook his head; Not the most reassuring of travel companions. The fancy lady grabbed my right hand and wouldn’t let go until my Dad starting blinking his eyes again.

Dad didn’t want the rest of us to get off the plane with him. We all disobeyed. There wasn’t enough room in the ambulance so my sister and her husband and I followed one of the paramedics to his car on the tarmac. The snow crunched under our feet as we made our way to the paramedic’s truck.

Salt Lake City, at least the Salt Lake City that we saw, was nothing but a white haze of snow.

My Dad turned out to be fine, well as fine as you can be after fainting and blacking out on a plane on a late night flight. I’m tired, sick of air travel, jet lagged and happy 2010 is here.