Can You Tell I Wrote It?

Hey now,

I just wrapped a commercial gig for a candy bar, and part of the job was writing blogs under the byline of a celebrity.

Can you tell I designed this particular graph?

Hard to believe, no? It mirrors my day quite succinctly, and it's pretty awesome I got to mask my horrible truth through the ivory prism known as a "celebrity blog".

Here's another one called "how to tell your son will grow up evil", can you guess which character I identify with?


The last one originally said "catacombs of an opera house", but, like most of my work, changes were demanded...

Here's the last one, not really sure exactly if this is funny or makes any sense if you're not playing the game, but either way, enjoy (or don't!)


So I guess the moral of the story is that I write a bunch about depressive people trying to fix their broken past by destroying the present. Not anything like my real life!

Well, actually it might be like my real life, but who the hell can tell with all those gallons of whiskey flowing through my coarse veins?

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to go shower while crying.

Holiday Surprise

Sometimes it's just nice to take a little holiday! "Hey Matt, what is a Holiday?", you ask?

Well, Webster's Dictionary defines it as a "brief, painful respite from the ever-deadening routine that barely passes for your pathetic life"...and, barring any fact checking, I'm pretty sure that's actually what it says.

I personally haven't been on a vacation in almost 2 years, but it might be nice to one day experience something that wasn't...whatever the hell this is. Also, I really shouldn't end sentences in a proposition, eh? Some fancy-type-pants writer I am.

For now, music is my holiday, and what better way to "holiday it up" than with a song called "Holiday Surprise 1,2,3" by a wonderful band (possibly defunct?) known as The Olivia Tremor Control.

I don't what "surprise" the is title referring to, but I can assume it's something awful and Twilight Zonian; like the holiday is actually in hell, or Paris Hilton is worshiped as an intellectual on a planet of neuroscientists.

Either way, I'm cryin' tonight!

Actually, now looking over the lyrics, it appears to be a three part rock opera about a guy who misses his girlfriend (holiday surprise 1) flies out to surprise his girlfriend (holiday surprise 2), only to find she's getting cold on him (holiday surprise 3). Universal themes that anyone; man, woman or Yugoslavian rent boy, can understand.

Anyways, listen to the song and admire its twisty-turniness; reminding you of The Beatles, The Beach Boys, Pink Floyd and Sonic Youth all in one shot.

If you like this, I'd give a listen to their first LP, Dusk At Cubist Castle, one of those albums people talked about in college, but you didn't listen to because people talked about it in college. Well, it's redemption time, you stuck-up douchebag!



lyrics:

spending my last dollar on a hotel and a restaurant
sky looks gray but the sky inside is a mighty great one

don't worry
don't worry

taking the time to waste your sunny day
taking the time to waste your sunny day

holiday surprise and a bright one at that
it's a holiday to last even though we spent the last year
in a dream, in a dream

taking the time to waste your sunny day
taking the time to waste your sunny day

imitating you
your image floats two feet above the ground
i sit down in my seat and wait to take off

i can't wait for the oxygen to get thin
i twist around in my seat
i'm flying like a star (a star taker)
taking light from the sky
teasing all the people with pictures of you
cause it's a holiday surprise
ooo-ah

remember the beliefs we had back then
said we'd never change our minds
but oh, and then again
all the dreams were just early plans
well please, please

don't you ever change your mind on me
don't you ever change your mind on me

conflict in our heads makes us see
without the depth that we used to
all of the problems in our way
make it so very hard to say
well please, please

Pollio String Theory

Some scientists have a theory of the universe called the "String Theory", which, simply put, is that everything is made up of strings of energy.

I have a different theory, called the "Pollio String Theory", which is that everything is made up from strings of delicious ultra-pasteurized Mozzarella cheese. It's on these cheese strings that everything flows; energy, particles, the bowels of a lactose intolerant Hebrew child.

Who's right? A cabal of highly intelligent, profoundly educated scientists, or me...a man with a very cute rabbit?

Holy SHIT! Lookit that thing! How on Earth could her owner be wrong about the fundamental theory of the universe? Stare into her eyes and know the truth.

OK, maybe those eyes are just saying "get me off this fucking couch and get that cell phone camera out of my face, you four-eyed loser", but the sentiment's the same.

My theory makes sense; think of how cheese compares with organic life: we're all high in calcium, we pre-date recorded history, and we pretty much all come from a lactating breast. Mmmm...lactating breasts...wait that's fucking disgusting and doesn't make any sense.

Not to be curd with you, but maybe my theory is udderly ridiculous. Casein point: there's no whey cheese could remain still-ton long enough to support life. Oh well, it felt like a Gouda idea at the time; still, it's important to think of the fondues and don'ts...so brie careful.

I'm so sorry.

Holiday Surprise 1,2,3

At a birthday party yesterday my friend's father challenged me to write more honestly and not censor myself.

This is a supremely hard challenge. If I was more HONEST, this blog would end up sounding more like:

"Holy shit, I fucking hate my life and everything in its pathetic orbit. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go masturbate while cutting myself to feel pain."

Plus if I opened up a little more, you might find out enough about me to get the true story behind this picture:

And if you knew that story, you might attempt to create legislation for some sort of "Internet Restraining Order" which would prevent me from stalking you on your social networking website of choice. Keep in mind though, I can still stalk you in real life; outside of your window while fondling my underthings and listening to "Rocky Mountain High" by John Denver on repeat.

You might call that weird, but I just call it "Friday night".

I think my biggest fear is that if I published my actual thoughts, people would read them, and that's a tremendously frightening proposition. I mean, I think I do a pretty good job of hiding the fact that I'm a borderline sociopath with an unhealthy interest in bazaar sexual practices. Right? But being honest...all might be revealed!

Maybe the dad was right; maybe I need to be more open and honest. After all, Zappos has taught me that I need to do that. But honesty is something that needs to be done in stages; one cannot admit that they are the world's first autophobic narcissist up front! You must lie about how fucked up you are, then slowly peel back the layers of truth like an onion made out of shit.

Ahh yes, ye olde "shit onion", great in salad or to encapsulate your miserable life.

I guess if I were to be truly honest, I could sum my life up in those two wondrously delicious words: "shit onion"...my life might look like shit, but peeling back each layer you realize that it's actually extra smelly weird shit like the kind that's off-green with something that looks like a corn nut floating around.

Yeah, so fuck honesty! I'm going back to lying while I write AND to myself! Yay! I love self delusion...that's where I'm a Pirate!

Random Fact o' the Day: John Tyler has two living grandchildren!

Our 10th president, John Tyler (1790-1862) has two living grandchildren.

Yes, someone born two hundred and nineteen years ago has living grandchildren.

He had a son (Lyon Gardiner Tyler) who was born in 1853, when Tyler was 63.

Lyon, at the approximate age of "older than dirt", had three children:

• Lyon Gardiner Tyler, Jr. (1924 – present)
• Harrison Ruffin Tyler (1928 – present)
• Henry Tyler (1931)

Born when Lyon was 71, 75 and 78 respectively.

Lyon Jr. is 85, add that to the age his father's was when he was born, you've got 156; add that to Tyler's age when Lyon was born...and you've got 219.

Even if I live another 60 years, the age between me and my oldest grandparent would be something like 164 years...and I'm the youngest of the youngest!

To put it into context, the next oldest president with a living grandchild is James Garfield, who would be a baby at 177 today. Jane Garfield is 99. Garfield was president 40 years after Tyler...

In case you're wondering, the oldest presidential child alive is John Eisenhower.

Anyway, next time you're at a party and feel like throwing out a factoid (or three) that will impress no one but nerds and trivia-obsessed ne'er-do-wells; bring this up. I guarantee at least .3 people will be impressed.

Tyler also had a child(ren) with a slave...but who didn't?

Unfortunate Ramblings of a Beauty Obsessed Nincompoop

Smiling, I frowned inside, as I was given yet another unenviable task by a moron who, in a perfect world, would be licking my bootstraps in a hapless attempt to appease me.

Unfortunately, "a perfect world" exists only in dreams and mid 1990s Clint Eastwood movies. Nope! This was reality, and I was staring into the gaping maw of 40 years of unchanging servitude until quite retirement and death caused by some painful disease.

It was at that point I realized something. Life sucks.

Yes, life sucks. Not in an ironic hipster tee shirt way...

But sucks, like in an unending string of melancholic happenstances that just...well, happen...until you die.

There are very few things that distract you from this morbid destiny. Number one: beautiful things.

Now, I know I'm not conventionally "beautiful", that's why my thong-modeling career never took off, but I do know beauty when I sees it.

Beauty is a more than just, as Frank Zappa cynically put it...

"...a bikini wax and waitin' for yer nails to dry

Beauty is a coloured pencil, scribbled all around yer eye

Beauty is a pair of shoes that makes you wanna die

Beauty is a, beauty is a, beauty is a lie"

Hate to disagree with an idol here, but beauty is probably the closest thing to truth out there. It's the only thing that lets us be what we honestly think we should be; happy little fuckers.

But beauty isn't JUST fancy vagina-enhancing type things (although those are nice); beauty is the little things; the smile of someone you adore, the endlessness of a pink blue sunset, your pet enjoying a gentle rub.

Because, as rule number 33 in Zombieland so adroitly put it, "enjoy the little things".

Happiness is bullshit; we can spend our lives trying to find it, but in the end, all you do is spend your life trying to find it. No, being happy is really just the feeling you have after a few "little things" string themselves together; you get a cool job, eat a gooey cookie, read a mind-expanding book. BOOM: put those three things together and you feel awesome. You're HAPPY!

Until you realize that you're not actually happy. Not quite SAD, but not exactly "storming the castle", like the Arrested Development episode of the same name.

So, next time you're dealing with the offensive nincompoopery of someone that should be hauled off to "Retard Island: The Place Where Idiots and Sex Perverts Can Procreate", think about the little things in life; maybe it's even just the very irony that someone SO STUPID could be telling you what to do and how to do it.

Because in the end, we are just little things ourselves...and maybe, somewhere that makes someone happy.

LA is Full of Retarded Nincompoopery

In July I was crossing the street. Subsequently, I've learned that in Los Angeles this is a Herculean task, not fit for man nor beast.

I began to walk when the little "don't walk" sign was blinking with about 15 seconds left. As a New Yorker, I felt like this was an appropriate time to start crossing the street.

I was wrong.

Reaching the other side the MILLIsecond the light turned red, a motorcycle cop blinked his blinky things and pulled me over. He proceeded to give me a $200 ticket for jaywalking...or being Jewish, whichever is more illegal. I pleaded my case, but it fell upon deaf ears. Did I mention that California is having a financial crisis?

Needless to say, it was such a ridiculous situation that I actually forgot about it. Moving on with my life, I received a letter last week informing me that I missed my court date two weeks ago, AND:

1) The ticket was now $800, unless I paid $500 within 10 days
2) My license was suspended

I immediately called LA county superior court, and over the course of three solid days, I got a message informing me that "I should call back at another time".

I went to the website, which offered me two options

1) Pay $510 dollars ($10 extra for paying online, obviously)
2) Set a new court date

I kept trying to set a court date; first requesting a PM time, then when that didn't work, requesting an AM time. When that didn't work, I selected "Any Time".

Then I got the following message:

"We cannot find a time in the 'any time' timeframe. Please request another time."

Realizing I was running out of time faster than a Muslim at an "America: Fuck Yeah!" rally, I swallowed my pride, opened up by pocket book, and paid $510 for a ticket that was basically for being 1/2 a step off of the curb when the light turned red. Still, it was better than paying $800 and not having a license.

Regardless, it's times like this that make me miss New York. Ahh yes, NYC, the fabulous city where pedestrians have the right of way, and people read books that aren't "based on the hit film".

I was crossing the street in Hollywood today, with the right of way, when a giant truck made a swervy left turn and came barreling towards me, expecting me to RUN out of it's way.

People who walk? That should definitely either be penalized by death or at least a large fine.

Anyway, I hate LA so much right now, here are a selection of pictures I took on my cell phone underscoring the stupidity of people here.

I took these over the course of TWO days:

I need a bookcase, or at least a shalf.

YOUR definitely on camera, whoever Your is.

Look carefully, his plate says "en8blr" IE "enabler"...only in LA...

Not according to your license plate.

Going Out 4 Business...I wonder where it's going...

Did I mention I miss New York?

the blog where i convince myself i'm not a writer

I refuse to write on Final Draft in public in Los Angeles, going to Los Angeles, or coming from Los Angeles. It is my attempt to not be a "number".

These "numbers" flock to LA with the lurid hope that they too will one day become the biggest writer since Sliced Bread, who wrote for Small Wonder during the '86-'87 season.

So here I sit, on a flight from Tennessee to Los Angeles firmly attached to my Text Edit.

Ahh, Text Edit; mysterious as the days are long. Yes, on it I could be writing something "LA"; a script, a treatment, autoerotic literature, but I could also be writing a list of groceries,"thank you" notes to relatives, autoerotic literature.

I don't like labels; sure, I've been called many names in my life; "Jew", "That Jew" and "That Creepy Jew Who Writes Autoerotic Literature", but I dare to defy them; NO! I will not write at the library, NO! I will not hold "business meetings" at a Starbucks, NADA! I will not eat Baja Fresh who sobbing profusely about my many failures.

No sir! I am a working writer, who works to write and writes to work. Also, I hate myself and everything I stand for. I guess that proves I'm not much of a writer though; ending a sentence with a proposition? If only William Safire was here to critique me.

So I refuse to write on Final Draft in public because as soon as anyone SEES me writing on Final Draft in public, they immediately define me as "one of those"; the nameless, faceless masses who take up about 95% of Los Angeles real estate and contribute nothing, except indigestion and slight dose of narcissistic hypochondria, which is a word I needed spell check to figure out how to spell. I guess that's strike two against being a writer. I'm a terrible speller. In fact, I almost spelled terrible with a 6. That doesn't eve6n make sense.

And neither does the fact I want to be a writer. I mean, what kind of self-important twit thinks that they have something truly revelatory to say that anyone wants to hear? Not me; in fact, I can barely stand being alone with myself for more than 10-12 seconds. And that's generous. No, I hate myself too much to be a writer; I'm a firm believer that even though people like Woody Allen or David Sedaris might be self-effacing, in their heart of hearts, they are OBSESSED with themselves. Not me. I vomit tears and blood when I look at myself in the mirror.

Strike three I guess. Oh well, it was a nice 16 1/2 years dreaming of being a professional writer. I'm gonna hand in my union card and become some sort of sex monk that gets to meditate and have sex with nubile young hippie chicks.

But wait....

Worrying about grammar and spelling? This is the 21st century and illiterate nincompoops are now shining beacons of literature! I don't need to actually know shit in this LOL LULZERS society. Well, take two strikes back.

As for the third strike...This entire blog posting is about myself...so I guess I'm kinda obsessed with myself in a "Mysery" starring Kathy Bates kinda way. The only thing is, I'm not sure whether I'm Kathy Bates or James Caan. Either way, I'm either breaking my legs or having my legs broken.

I guess you can love yourself and despise yourself at the same time. That what they call "Larry David" syndrome, right?