-Since the temperature varies so little in Los Angeles, sometimes I forget that seasons even exist.  When one of my buddies on the East Coast complains about being bombarded with snow, I have to look at a calendar and remind myself that just because it’s 75 degrees and sunny in LA, doesn’t mean it’s not still winter.  I also have to remind myself not to call my friend and be a dick by rubbing it in.  Spring, however, is a different story, because it’s a season noted as much for its weather as for its significance as a time of renewal.  Spring is when we begin training in earnest for the rest of the year.  The skirts get shorter, the days get longer, and winter is a distant memory to all except those who I remind about it on a weekly basis until December.  

-After essentially hibernating for the past few months due to a minor knee injury and a major bout of laziness, I’ve finally begun working out regularly again.  Since my gym is in my apartment building, it’s been a while since I hit the treadmill and then got directly in my car, as I did the other day to run some quick errands.  Driving around while marinating in my own sweat was a good dose of humility.  The world would be a much better place if everyone were occasionally reminded of how much they fucking stink.

-Spring marks the end of flu season, which must be a welcome respite for actors who can’t really take sick days in the middle of filming.  Have you ever watched a sitcom and just been able to tell by their unusually nasal voice that one of the actors is deathly ill?  Sometimes they work it into the storyline, and other times they just assume viewers won’t notice that one of the characters sounds like he’s underwater.

-In Hollywood, pilot season is underway, meaning new shows that will air once in the fall before being unceremoniously canceled are now being filmed.  Soon, my managers and agents will send me out on meetings to start developing next year’s pilots.  My representatives provide me with all the salient information: who I’m meeting, where, and – if I’m meeting with a chick – the size of her tits.  I’m not kidding.  I’ve gone to meetings, looked at my notes, and realized I have no idea what project I’m talking about, but have been fully briefed on every cup size in the room.