It does seem odd to use the expression "getting ready" when talking about our move, though, because neither of us feels especially ready at all. Really, we aren't even sure how to feel ready. We can't really start looking for an apartment until the end of this month, for a move the following month. Consequently, we don't have a new address or even a move date. We just have a few solid but disconnected plans: We will pack up our stuff and move it to Los Angeles in some moving company's truck while we rent a car and drive together across the country and hope we all arrive on the other coast around the same time, at an apartment for which we have a lease and keys. There's also the business of getting our cats to Los Angeles--subjecting them a 10-day car trip seems unnecessarily cruel to everyone on the vehicle, but flying them out early means they'll have a month to hang out somewhere in Los Angeles in advance of our arrival.

Oh yeah, and cars. Two cars. Purchasing one car seems like a six-month research investment, so purchasing two, in a window of just a few days, seems fairly insane.

Oh yeah, and neighborhoods. Lisa will be working in Santa Monica and I will be working in Universal City. Are we supposed to just rent a trailer parked on the median of Pico Boulevard? What is even considered a reasonable commute compromise? And what is considered a reasonable compromise? One hour? Four hours? And will we ever walk again?

Oh yeah, and we have about three dozen more "oh yeahs" to sort out over the next few weeks. Sometimes Lisa and I become paralyzed by our own checklists and that's when days like today occur, where the only progress we made toward our relocation was spending several hours at Sol Moscot buying new eyeglasses for her and new prescription sunglasses for me. (Now I can enjoy my own genetic weaknesses in style. LA style!)

I've lived in the same city for over thirteen years, and the same state all my life. There are so many ways I feel connected to New York that on good days, I try to look at this sudden move as an "adventure"--a corny truth I believe. However, on bad days it's more like a "terrifying change," a "tremendous imposition", or a "stress test of the bond of marriage." That said, no matter how things shake out with this new job I'm glad Lisa and are embarking on this tremendous imposition together.

I contributed a story about a bachelor party I planned, and ruined, to a new book titled REJECTED: Tales of the Failed, Dumped, and Canceled, which comes out next week. Thankfully, this being the Internet, you can even pre-order a copy right now.

And if you are going to be in the NYC area next Tuesday, January 27th, I'll be reading my contribution to the book at The Bell House in Brooklyn for the REJECTED launch party/live show.

Some of the other scheduled performers include David Wain, David Rees, Mike Albo, Dave Hill, Odd Todd, Sara Schaefer, Tom McCaffrey, Katina Corrao--plus, live music from THE DEFIBULATORS. The event will be hosted by the creator of The Rejection Show and the editor of this anthology, Jon Friedman.

Even with the incessant and thorough coverage of today's inauguration, its importance can't be overstated. The only thing it was missing was Obama escorting Bush into his helicopter with a big goodbye boot to the ass.

Right now I am anxiously awaiting for the Red man to get ahead, man.

I am out of shape. Or, more accurately, I am in shape but it's a new shape -- one that no longer requires a belt, and suddenly finds the elastic band of underwear "restrictive." This new shape also came with a weird exhaustion with the slightest exertion. Something as simple as walking around my apartment and eating refrigerated cinnamon roll dough from its cardboard tube makes me almost dizzy, and causes my breathing to become labored, like Mickey Rourke in the opening minutes of The Wrestler.

On this sprint to ruin, I've tested Lisa's devotion, patience, and gag reflex over and over by drawing constant attention to my new flab. Any time Lisa makes eye contact with me, I take it as a cue to lift my shirt, expose my belly, and tug at it like a suspicious-looking beard. If Lisa isn't looking at me -- something that's been happening with greater frequency these days -- I'll go through the same belly-grabbing drill, making sure to also cry out, "WHAT HAPPENED TO ME?!!?" It's become an almost unconscious behavior. Sometimes I'll just find myself in front of a mirror, distractedly cupping the curve beneath my stomach, Thomas Beatie-style. After a large meal, my knee-jerk response is to expose my stomach like some kind of animal, and just stare at it hatefully, whether I'm in my own apartment or a fancy restaurant filled with French people. I know this embarrasses Lisa, but it's something I do without any self-awareness at all. It's some form of Tourette Syndrome triggered by self-loathing.

To help save my marriage -- to her great credit, Lisa is not horrified by my flab; only by the way I constantly draw attention to it, privately and publicly -- I returned to the gym earlier this week, barely sure what to do once I arrived. Jumping Jacks? Squat thrusts? Suicide drills? And I could almost deal with the exercising if I didn't have to suffer through the dressing and undressing part. Maybe if I lived in Gary, Indiana, I would feel more solidarity with other gym patrons but at my gym in Manhattan many (all) of the other men are in such excellent shape that all I can think is, "Why are you here? You're finished getting in shape. Congratulations. Now go home and have some waffles--you've clearly earned them." Next to them, with my medium-soft breasts and the faint outlines of abdominal definition concealed within a fatty quilt, I expect I look like one of two things: Either a guy who was once in reasonably good shape and has recently gotten out of the hospital after a three-month-long battle with pneumonia, or a guy who has never been in shape before and is just discovering where his muscles are located.

I plan to keep returning to the gym, even if it means undressing privately in a bathroom stall for a few months. I'm also going to try to change certain habits in my diet, because I've learned that good choices can gain a certain amount of momentum, just as bad choices beget more bad choices. For example, drinking four glasses of wine last night begat defrosting the last remaining slab of our wedding cake and caking it up at one a.m. last night. I guess that's an example of bad leading to bad. Unfortunately, I can't think of any examples of good choices right now. It's probably because these sweatpants are cutting off some of my blood circulation, and making me light-headed.

• locating friends at a convention
• letting friends know how bored you are in the class/convention panel you're attending
• making sure total strangers understand exactly how important your friends/social plans/creative projects/Hollywood meetings are
• asking questions about new iPhone apps
• answering questions about new iPhone apps
• exhibiting your deliciously pithy wit
• smashing a bunch of keys with giant thumbs and hitting send (applies only to Shaquille O'Neal)
• telling people you're "friends" with Stephen Fry

Of course, all of that hasn't stopped this hypocrite from adopting Twitter. If you have a very short attention span and wish to follow my Internet twitter litter trail, you can do so at twitter.com/trembledotcom.

I'll be performing in the 92Y Tribeca's Chanukomedy Show, hosted by JOE MANDE and featuring some great joke-makers, including JANEANE GAROFALO, LEO ALLEN, BRET GELMAN, AMY SCHUMER, and RACHEL FEINSTEIN. I stand by this line-up! Here are the details:

92Y Tribeca Presents Chanukomedy
Wednesday, December 24 @ 8pm
92YTribeca: 200 Hudson St. (just below Canal)

Tickets are only $12, and can be purchased here. You can also RSVP to the event on Facebook, just like they do in the future!

The show should be so much fun, you'll go from this...

...to this!

On a related subject, last night I watched part of a Discovery Channel special on the science of morbid obesity. It was fascinating in that "I just watched someone eat 47 latkes" kind of way. There were a number of interesting facts about morbid obesity, including this one: because of their unusually heavy load, morbidly obese people make their vehicles 10-20% less fuel efficient.

Another interesting fact: this Discovery Channel television special probably exhausted every piece of b-roll footage in existence of fat people shot from behind and below the head, waddling around shopping malls and amusement parks. They even had that rare footage of a fat person on an assisted-mobility scooter, stretching for a box of cookies on a high supermarket shelf. (That clip actually won a Rollie Award in 2006, for Outstanding Achievement in Padding Out a Human Health & Nutrition Local News Package.)

I found myself incredibly sympathetic toward the central "character" of the special -- a man who weighs over 500 pounds and, after several failed attempts at diet, is preparing himself for last-resort gastric bypass surgery. He seemed like he was really struggling with his weight, and clearly came from a family where food = love. Apparently, crash dieting is often a terrible and unsuccessful strategy for the morbidly obese because, as that sized frame begins to quickly shed pounds, the body goes into a kind of state of shock and begins producing extra hormones to increase one's appetite in order to help return to an "equilibrium weight." (Which, in the case of someone who was morbidly obese, is much higher than the average person.) Learning about the science of obesity honestly gave me a new perspective on people who make the decision to have gastric bypass surgery. It is not so much of a cop-out as it is a final, desperate act to live a normal, less wheezy life.

However, I must confess my compassion toward the gastric bypass candidate waned a bit during the footage of the "going under the knife party" thrown by his family. (After this party, he would have to go on a four-day clear liquid diet to help empty his body, since morbidly obese people often have 20-30 pounds of toxic, undigested food in their digestive systems at any time.) Rather than regard this as a turning point in his life, the patient saw the party as his "last hurrah" and piled high plate after plate of oily Central American snacks, devouring everything with giddy delight. I realize the producers of this special wanted me to see how tortured this guy is by his own tremendous appetites, but I will forever be haunted by the image of him ladling barbecue sauce on a plate devoid of vegetables, while sing-speaking, "ooh...this is yummy yummy yummy for my tummy." It's one thing to give in to your weaknesses on camera, but did you have to write a children's rhyme about it? I guess I just didn't expect to hear the words "yummy" and "tummy" on the lips of a man who was precariously close to eating himself to death. I sort of expected that when morbidly obese people binge, they are more likely to say things to themselves like, "oh, fuck, what the fuck is wrong with you, man?" or "oh, jesus christ what the fuck am i doing oh god i can't stop eating and crying and eating and pooping and crying."

Perhaps the studio was to blame for choosing to open Delgo on over 2,000 screens without spending a single dollar marketing or advertising Delgo beforehand. Or perhaps you could blame this unprecedented bomb on the fact that Delgo was animated by a studio no one has ever heard of, or the fact that the movie deals with racism in some clunky and convoluted way that somehow involves lizard creatures. OR maybe it was simply because the title of this animated film is Delgo. DELGO? That sounds like the title of an obscure and sweet little Italian film about a unique young boy coming of age (i.e. masturbating on or with something crazy, like a piece of knitting or a freshly caught trout) in Sicily during WWII.*

I guess my point is, if one were to write an article about Delgo's massive failure on opening weekend, there are a number of angles with which to approach the story. Delgo had a lot going against it, honestly, which makes it very curious that Yahoo! decided this was the best headline to run: FREDDIE PRINZE JR. MOVIE BIGGEST BOMB EVER.

I want to say, "way to throw Freddie Prinze Jr. under the bus, Yahoo" -- mostly because I really want to get in on this whole "throwing X under the bus" phenomenon that's been going around lately. However, it might be more accurate to say, "way to leave Freddie Prinze Jr. under the bus where he's been for almost a decade, but then point and shout 'Hey look, it's Freddie Prinze Jr. There, under the bus!' loud enough for everyone to hear, Yahoo!"

For all of Delgo's obvious shortcomings, why go after Freddie Prinze Jr? It's not as if Delgo was his personal vanity project. His Postman or Battlefield: Earth or The President of the United States of Meshuggenah. (That is the working title of my vanity project about our country's first Jewish President whose mother comes to live with him in the White House to make him feel ashamed of his bowel movements.) To my knowledge, Delgo was not a Freddie Prinze Jr. vehicle. There were plenty of other actors involved, some of whom do not have the "Prinze Jr. Stink" all over them. Also, it's an animated film, a genre where the voice actors are usually the last thing to blame for the film's failure. I haven't seen Delgo, and maybe Freddie Prinze Jr. insisted on playing his role live action, in which case the blame could fall squarely on his horrible shoulders. But I don't think there is actually a single frame of Delgo in which Freddie Prinze Jr. is recognizable.

Which leads me to wonder, Yahoo, how did Freddie Prinze Jr. hurt you? Did he refuse to answer questions from Yahoo at his red carpet premiere of Wing Commander? Maybe he spied that ".com" on your mic, held up his hand dismissively, and told your correspondent, "Sorry, I don't do Web press." Did he bail on a live online chat? Did he refuse to cross-link? WHY ARE YOU SO HURTFUL TOWARD ONE OF OUR NATION'S COMEDIC TREASURE'S SONS?

I guess, mostly, I'm just disappointed that Yahoo has lowered itself to the ad hominem attacks that are the mark of so much entertainment journalism these days. Yahoo, I thought you were earnest, like AOL.com and not nasty, like TMZ.com. I thought you were better than this but I have to say, Yahoo, you really let me down -- kind of like Freddie Prinze Jr.'s wooden voice acting work let Delgo down.

*This kind of movie usually has a scene where a soldier gives the boy a deck of nude lady playing cards and then, later, the little boy sees a neighborhood lady in her bra through a keyhole or fence knot and masturbates in his bathroom, and then is caught in the act by his obese grandmother. It's the kind of movie you see a preview for in art house theaters and the only dialogue in the preview is various characters shouting "Delgo" at different moments in the film, because it is the only dialogue most English-speaking audiences can understand.

My friend, Gregg, told me I should be nicer to Kanye West because he's clearly still recovering from cataract surgery.

Among its 200 (!) pages, the editors have collected some of their favorite pieces from 2008 and have also (bonus!) commissioned 21 new pieces from some of their writing staff. One of those new pieces was written by me expressly for this annual, so if you'd like to read it you should buy this thing now. I would also add that there are 200 pages worth of other reasons to buy this damn thing. If I know the editors of TMN -- and I'd like to think I do -- I know they made certain they were producing a quality (maybe even respectable) product.

It would make a fine gift, and also a fine small, selfish gesture during this holiday season. Plus, for this initial run there is only a limited quantity of 200 copies. So please, do us all a favor.

I wasn't able to find any photographs online of Jeff speaking directly to the camera, because he is a dracula monster whose filmed image disappears at sunrise. I can, however, tell you this: hearing Jeff speak of his passion for cooking in that uninflected, unblinking robo-speak is exactly like watching an imprisoned serial murderer detachedly recount the grisly details his crimes. Jeff is Top Chef's B.L.T. Killer. (HUGE APPLAUSE) He's the Hannibal Lecter of cooking things that aren't people's faces. (STANDING OVATION) He's John Wayne Gravy! (DEVELOPMENT DEAL WITH NBC) The Zodiac Griller! (ENOUGH! OK? ENOUGH!!) Jeff has dead eyes.

But even if Jeff were talking about preparing a meal with fava beans and a nice Chianti (an incredibly obscure film reference - METACRITIC IT!) it would not be nearly as scary as his ocular opposite, Carla:

Oh man, quit it. If eyes are indeed the windows to the soul (I made that up but it has an inherent truth to it, no?), then Carla's eyes should have iron bars on them and be made up unbreakable plexiglas just in case Carla's soul tries to smash its head against it. Also, Carla's soul should have its shoelaces and belt confiscated. There are other jokes I could make but, seriously, mental illness is a real disease and diseases are not funny. (With the exception of Spina Bifida, which is only funny in name, and not at all funny in many other ways.) Carla has an intensely nervous energy. She actually seems to vibrate when she speaks. At one point in the last episode, one of the judges mentioned that Carla made her uncomfortable when she was giving an on-camera cooking demo. I wonder what could have made her uncomfortable? Was it the fact that Carla was having a little trouble finishing her demo on time? Or maybe it had something to do with her being a six-foot eight electric eel in a fright wig whose eyeballs are so large they press up against the lenses of her glasses? Seriously:

"Hey chef, I'll have two eyes, over crazy!" (CONGRATULATIONS, JAY LENO, ON YOUR NEW PRIMETIME WEEKDAY PROGRAM.)

Within six months, the couch looked like a middle-aged prostitute--and not one of those high-class ones, either. The kind of prostitute that make lots of mistakes on the job, forgetting to tell johns to pay cash up-front, picking a mean pimp, walking over subway grates in heels, and so on. Now, nearly every edge of the sofa is torn beyond repair and its stuffing exposed, except in certain places where the stuffing has been completely removed and secreted away in various cat hiding spots around the apartment. The frame is visible through giant tears on the sofa's arms; you can slide your arm inside and press it against the fabric to make it look like the couch is breathing. And these days, when the cats drag their claws across the couch, they do so joylessly, like they're just going through the motions. It's not quite as sad as coming home each night to a couch that would look more at home in an underground compound inhabited by mole people than a Brooklyn apartment inhabited by an effete snob, his wife, and a pair of lousy cats.

In an attempt to avoid a similar outcome with our new couch, precautions were taken. Lisa and I did a lot of research. We tried "no claw" sprays -- some kind of bottled mist that is supposed to smell like farts to cats, which is a pretty incredible thing considering how much cats enjoy the odor of "salmon and liver"-flavored cat food and each other's anuses. Unfortunately, it seems my cats equally enjoy the smell of farts because that spray prevented nothing except a repeat-purchase.

Next up: Soft Paws. Soft Paws are kind of like Lee Press-On Nails for cats and come in an assortment of colors, including special holiday-themed mixes. Lisa and I had some disagreement about whether these would be a viable solution; I thought applying and maintaining them would require as much, if not more work than just cutting their nails; Lisa thought they'd look really hilarious. We were both right.

Soft Paws are actually kind of fun, providing your idea of fun is participating in weeks-long scavenger hunt, collecting the ruby red plastic sheaths your cats have chewed off their nails and deposited all around your apartment. But as an alternative to worrying about our next couch purchase, they were kind of a big, fat failure. (Coincidentally, I think "Big, Fat Failure" is also the title of the 37th Garfield Comics Treasury.)

As a result, shopping for a couch has not been the fancy experience I'd hoped it would be. I haven't even bothered visiting nice home furnishings stores like Conran's, ABC Home and Carpet, and Design Within Reach. Instead, I've been spending most of my time on cat-related message boards, where cat owners share helpful advice about cat-resistant fabrics. I read a lot of arguments for (and, frustratingly, against) leather, microfiber and microsuede, but I also found a lot of advice like this:

"...to keep my twelve feral cats from wrecking my furniture, I simply drape my IKEA futon in a couple of old mismatched bed sheets, then and wrap hotel bath towels around the arms using electrical tape. Works like a charm!"

"I bought a couch upholstered in sisal. BIG MISTAKE! I learned my lesson real quick, and got rid of that thing. These days, when I want to watch my stories, I just stretch out on a pile of saved-up plastic grocery bags. The cats still claw at them and sometimes the noise can be unbearable, but at least the bags are easily replaceable. So I guess you could say we're all living happily ever after!!"

"There is only one foolproof way to keep your cats from trashing your furniture: mittens."

"Hi. I'm wrapped in a hand-made afghan covered in cat fur, and waiting for a mail carrier, Chinese food delivery person -- anyone, really -- to ring my doorbell and become part of my life, even for a few precious minutes of human interaction."

When we finally settled on a couch -- a model that was neither outrageously expensive nor upholstered with chain-mail -- and found a few fabrics we liked, Lisa assessed the various colors against our apartment's decor. I, however, had my own ideas about what to do with our fabric swatches. I arranged them in a small grid on one of the couch cushions and had Lisa transport one of our sleeping cats from the floor to the couch, directly on top of the swatches. I wanted to test the various colors and materials for their respective properties of Fur Magnetism and Ease of Removal. After a few hours, I lifted the cat's belly and removed the swatches to examine them for hair distribution. This is what it's come to, I guess.

The whole experience made me feel a little like a sad shut-in -- the kind of person who posts hundreds of photos of himself on a European vacation, and you can kind of tell, usually by the distance of the camera to the subject, the angle, or the presence of tensed shoulders in the frame, that all of the photographs were self-portraits. But necessity is the mother of shut-ins, and these measures were necessary. I'm just grateful that, in 10-12 short weeks, we'll have a brand-new couch to replace the tired prostitute we sit on these days. And just to be safe, I'm probably going to buy some filthy bed sheets and electrical tape, too.