Class - Jay called me yesterday, while i had dough on my hands. I think I didn't use enough flour, maybe. Whatever happened, after almost 20 minutes of kneading, what started out as some carefully measured, then mixed ingredients was nothing more than a spongy ball of glue that looked like it had been soaked in faux-adobe house paint.

"Levine?" he said. He was right. "How's things going with your comedy class?" I've been taking this sketch comedy class at the Hyena Comedy Institute, down on Missionstrasse. The first class was great, exciting, lots of fun. I felt like this was something I could do. Yesterday afternoon, though, I felt like I had no chance. I wanted to skip class. Now, I have six sketches I need to write before next week's class. This is going to be tough.

"You can do it," he said, not giving me any specific reason why he thought that. I cradled the receiver between my shoulder and ear so I could work on peeling the dough from the olive oil bottle and the dog. The cookbook says to keep the olive oil nearby, and keep my hands lightly oiled. "You have plenty of material," he said, alluding to some mutual friends, "just write about that stuff."

My years spent becoming a perfectly adequate juggler helped me hang up the phone using my wrists instead of my hands, without getting any dough stuck to it. All this for some homemade pizza.