Don't Call It A Comeback (no seriously, you shouldn't call it a comeback)

Writing a blog post is a lot like sex. The longer you wait between entries, the more difficult each attempt becomes, until you're sitting in the shower, crying, wearing nothing but a sock to hide your flaccid shame.

Or, I guess writing a blog post is a lot like writing a blog post. It's not easy if you all you feel like writing are terrible, terrible metaphors.

Back in the oughts (or the "naughty oughties" as I called them), I would post with the regularity that would make you think I was eating nothing but brain fiber topped with imagination flax seeds. Yes, my brain would poop with regularity. I pine for the halcyon days of brain poopery and all the wonder and magnificence that would entail.  There was even a point when I had regular readers who regularly commented. With regularity!

Alas, much like my salad days of yore (those days when I ate nothing but salads at Yore: the dyslexic's pronoun restaurant and eatery), my blog posts have become seldom, like I was eating nothing but brain wheat.

The Writer stopped writing. "I should probably discontinue the use of metaphors when describing creativity," he opined. "Frank Zappa was a genius and I really need to stop shitting out crap-filled metaphors".

The Writer smiled at himself. "Yeah, you're going to stop those prose comparisons, but will you ever stop the real life comparisons to geniuses and/or people who have just simply worked harder than you?". Then the smile kind of turned into a grin, which swiftly morphed into a blank expression, and then finally graduated to a frown. It was a slow process, but then sometimes realizations take a bit to settle in.

"You need to write more", he said to himself. "You also need to learn the correct usage of commas inside quotation marks," he continued. He had never mastered the art of grammar. He had never wanted to, really. After all, what use is it, to have proper comma use, if that use is to separate, words that were meaningless, to begin with?

Soon enough, he thought, writing will evolve into nothing more than a series of abbreviations (or abbv). and graphic characters :). The language we speak now will look to future generations like Old English looks to us. "Who were these weirdos who spoke in words longer than three characters? Yuck! So boring!".

The Writer sighed.

What's the point in writing if no one knows how to read?
What's the point in reading if no one knows how to write?

It was at that existential crossroads when The Writer decided it was time to stop writing that particular blog post: slightly disappointed at the quality of the work, but with a newfound hunger for future entires. Sure, there may be no regular readers left, but maybe the point of writing is to write. Maybe the point of reading is to read. Nothing existential, nothing profound. Maybe you just do something for the sake of doing it, and you worry about the grander consequences later.

At that moment, The Writer knew he needed to end the post with something appropriate. Something that future generations could look back and actually understand. Something that readers would read and say "hey, that wasn't a totally useless ending".

The Writer knew there was only one character that could sum it all up. The beginning and the end. Alpha and Omega.

And that character is:

.

The New Website

As some of you may know (or may not know - if there are "some of you" out there - which there might not be) - I am in the process of putting together a film. During that process I am keeping a blog, which I will be updating regularly - so feel free to check it out:

http://wannabefilm.com/blog/

There's also a bunch of delicious filmy goodness contained therein - so check it out: I command you!

I will also be updating this as much as I normally do - hopefully more when my fancy strikes. But really, when does your fancy strike? How hard does it strike? Who is this mysterious Fancy? These questions and more will probably not be answered by any upcoming posts.

Denise Huxtable: I think NOT

Who the fuck were the Cosby show producers trying to fool? Denise? A member of the Huxtable clan? Why not make George Wallace a black panther - it would be more believable.

First off, Denise is whiter than your teeth after Crest Whitening Strips - that is...kinda white, at least not as yellow as they were after the last disgusting carafe of staining black coffee. I mean, this beautiful specimen is cut from the same cloth as Rashida Jones. Hot Jew mom, sexy Black dad. Have you seen a picture? A side by side?

Could this girl:

Really be the daughter of these two people:

I doubt it. She's more like the child of Natalie Portman:

and Gary Coleman:

Or at least the child of Gary Cole:

and this woman:

Now, as a child of the 80s, I may have spent many o' nights dreaming of what might happen if Denise Huxtable fell into a giant vat of super creamy lard while wearing only her bra and a spandex loin cloth, but I never once said to myself "gee, her parents: Cliff and Clair, would mind".

No! As someone who puts a lot of thought into such things, Denise totally took me out of the reality of the Cosby Show. I was willing to believe that they created a complex socioeconomic world for Theo navigate in under 24 minutes (that one episode where he had to find his way in the world, before he returned to not having to find his way in the world), but Denise, not at least partially Jewish? No chance.

Oh well, I guess I'll just go back to my horrendously inacurate Netflix and enjoy the show:

Philly Doctor? That's almost as big a deal as Denise's quandary - as in, I'm basically the only one who cares.

As an aside, Zoe Kravitz? We're all kinda just waiting for you to sing the Ma Nishtana while wearing nothing but blush, sunglasses and ten pounds of latkes.

Just sayin'.

EARTHQUAKE IN THE NORTHEAST!!!

After I heard about the earthquake on the east coast yesterday, I called my mother to see if she felt it. Here is the conversation:

Me: hey Mom.
Mom: Matthew, can I call you back? I'm on the phone with Evie.
Me: Oh, I just wanted to see if you felt the earthquake. People are talking about it on Facebook.
Mom: (to Evie) OH MY GOD! EVIE! IT WAS AN EARTHQUAKE! (to me) Matt! I thought it was a mouse!
Me: A mouse?
Mom: Yes, I thought a mouse was in my couch and moving it around. (to Evie) MATT JUST CALLED AND SAID IT WAS AN EARTHQUAKE! IT WASN'T A MOUSE!!! HE HEARD ABOUT IT ON FACEBOOK!
Me: Why did you think it was a mouse?
Mom: Because the couch moved.
Me: The couch moved and you thought it was a mouse?
Mom: Or any kind of rodent. (to Evie) EVIE, I'LL CALL YOU BACK! MATTHEW SAYS IT WAS AN EARTHQUAKE AND HE HEARD ABOUT IT ON FACEBOOK!
Me: I should go.
Mom: Oh my fucking God, it was an earthquake. I picked up all the cushions to find that mouse! All of them!
Me: OK, I'm going back to work.
Mom: It wasn't a mouse! Unbelievable.
Me: Love you!
Mom: The couch shook! Can you believe that! The couch shook! Holy fucking shit!
Click

Trying to keep up

I don't write in this blog that much anymore. I think it's because I'm not as inspired as I used to be. Why is that?

Probably because I work at home all day long. There's only so much inspiration one can derive from the following schedule:

9-11am - "brainstorm" on the toilet
11am-1pm - "toilet storm" on the toilet
1pm-3pm - watch "Toilet Storm", the A&E reality show about a group of tattooed plumbers and the drains they fondle
3pm-5pm - fondle my own drains while thinking about "toilet storm"

Coincidentally, my high school nickname was "the toilet storm", but that had more to do with my shitty personality than anything else.

It's a sedentary life. One which includes brief insights into the human condition - for example, the other day I woke up with the following tidbit written into my "thought pad" (if you can call it that): "there is a fine line between porno stash and porno 'stash."

Sure, Ron Jeremy and my comprehensive pornography collection might be of interest to pale, undersexed hornballs - but who wants to listen to them? No one - not even that one prostitute I tried really hard to recite poetry to.  Seriously, if she couldn't pretend to be into E.E. Cummings, then what am I paying her $50 for? Hot Carls? It's not worth it!

I guess another reason I don't write here as much is that most of my creative energy is spent attempting to craft Hollywood gold. It's funny - I expend much more effort writing that stuff than I ever did writing for this blog. And honestly, I'm pretty sure that my writing's much, much worse.

When you write scripts, you are allowed to type things like: "He looks at her. She smiles. They hug." Taken out of context, that would seem like a second grader's "happy time story telling", but you know what? That came from the script of a multi-million dollar project. Not going to say which one, but do I really have to? I'm sure you've seen it - if not on screen - in your nightmares.

So honestly, writing this blog is easier, more fun and less cringe-inducing than writing for Hollywood. That's probably why I barely update it. Too good and easy. I'm one for punishment. And I guess I don't have much to complain about - with the exception of the fact that I've obviously started beginning sentences with "and", which is such poor grammar that I believe Priscian is currently rolling around in his grave. Do you not know who Priscian is? Good, he's happy you don't. He says "fuck you and your terrible grammar, you indolent ne'erdowell". His words, not mine.

I guess the moral of the story is...don't try to make money writing. If that's your dream, then stop following your dreams. Aim low. Aim so low that humongous failure is a step up. That way, if you bugger your shit up - you're still doing OK. Priscian won't judge and you'll still have time to brainstorm on the toilet.

See? I can't write shit anymore. On a side note, this blog post has been optioned and will be turned into a buddy comedy staring Martin Lawrence and Ashton Kutcher called "Big Momma's...oh who the fuck cares?"

Reflection of a Reflection

This is the view from outside my window. It's interesting because every time I look out the window, about 56% of it is a reflection of my living room. If that isn't a metaphor for life, I don't know what is.

OK, I actually don't know what "is". Seriously. What is? I don't know. Not sure I even understand the question. Perhaps if I were a poet or poetess, I might be able to compile an apt metaphor from that dangerous grey matter known as my brain, but for now - I don't know what "is" is and my brain is taking a brief vacation at the Retirement Hills Resort in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. It's Jewish and the dry heat is good for its sciatica.

I work from home - which basically means I spend 2-3 hours a day working, and the rest huddled in the fetal position - sobbing quietly and gently caressing my big toe with a handful of moisturizing cream. Sometimes I scream "why, Jesus, why?!!?" while eating a vat of expired Thousand Island salad dressing. Sometimes I simply lip-sync to "A-Ha's" greatest hits while rubbing mayo on my chest - wondering if there is bread big enough to encase my condiment-smothered body. Sometimes, I question if life is worth it and sometimes I wonder if the calories from the mayo are making me "hipy".

But every once in a while I turn my head to look outside my window. And there's always that reflection. Half inside/half out. Kind of like a prolapsed vagina. Please don't google that. But seriously, it's exactly like a prolapsed vagina. Again, don't google. I'm adamant about that. Really - you've got standards.

I guess the metaphor is apt. I'm a New Yorker, staring out my blank window to the vast, vacuous wasteland that is Los Angeles. There's about as much culture here as a Star Magazine can provide. Definitely something is missing. Soul, depth...to be pretentious - I'll even say myself. I'm half in/half out. A reflection of a reflection.

I see a street sign buried in the depths of some pictures hanging up on my wall - but in the end, all it is - is a reflection. An idea of what things could or should be. My body might be situated in a medium-sized living room (at quite a steal, I may add), but my mind is elsewhere - transversing expensive streets in blank cities - wondering if I'll ever find a reasonable place to live - or, if the odds are Vegas-style - wondering if I'll be spending all my money in the flashy place with the women with the fake boobies.

Either way, it's all just an idea - a concept looking at a concept. Perhaps the answer will appear one day - perhaps it won't. Either way, I'll still be staring out the window, wondering if I'm looking outside or seeing a mirror of what's inside.

I'm Getting Published Ya'll!

You may have noticed that I haven't been updating here a lot recently. Well, you probably haven't noticed, because you gave up on this blog in mid-2010 after posts became scarcer than a politician who describes themselves as a liberal - but it hasn't been for naught.

I'm happy to announce here, to both of you, that I'm being published ya'll. Two books and a publishing deal worth 1.2 million rubles (12 American Cents) with the 3rd most popular publishing company in Belarus: Phlegm, Mucus and Blintzes, INC. Exciting, right? PMB's work with the most preeminent lactose intolerant authors has made them incredibly popular in the Baltic States (not to mention Mediterranean Avenue*), and I'm proud to be a small part.

So, without further adieu, the cover art:

And the follow up:




*a little Monopoly humor for you.

Also, this is not true. If you didn't figure that out, then you're the type of person who believes Paul Revere was riding around on a horse to warn the British that the American "well-armed persons individual private militia" were coming to get them.

If Jews Ran The World...

QUICK NOTE: I posted this a few years ago. Think of this as a summer rerun - or perhaps more aptly, second-run syndication, like how "The Ted Knight Show" became the de-facto sixth season of "Too Close For Comfort", simply because it was so fucking easy to do.

I found out something interesting today, but I'm afraid to share it, for fear that I play too much on the "Jewy" angle.

Oh vell!

Syrians, Palestinians, and Lebanese share more DNA with Jews than they do with neighboring non-Jews. Talk about your self-hating Jews!

The theory is that most of them were Jews to begin with, but converted to Islam somewhere along the way...too bad that hasn't caused both sides to hug and fondle each others' dangly underthings.

This doesn't actually come as a surprise to me. I mean, let's take Arafat for example...the man looked pretty freakin' Jewish...maybe a Jew who spent a little too much time in the Florida sun, but Jewish nonetheless...

I mean, let's be honest; the guy could have been Jackie Mason's angry, comically hilarious headcovering-wearing brother Shlomo.

They've got to share some schlumpy DNA, no?

So where does it leave us?

0.2 percent of the world is Jewish. 19% is Islamic and 32% is Christian. That's 51%! Let's be honest.

If Jews were 51% percent of the world's population, do you think we'd have such socio-political strife in the world? No. Here's the 5 reasons why:

1) POPULAR AVAILABILITY OF PASTRAMI SANDWICHES: Have you ever been to the "2nd Avenue Deli" in New York? No? How about "Langer's" in Los Angeles? Not that one either? OK, well here's a little Jew-insight...we like Pastrami sandwiches and have for thousands of years. Do you want to proselytize after eating one? No, you want to drink a Cel-Ray tonic and unbutton your pants.

If Jews ran the world, these delights would be available in McDonalds and Burger King and everyone would be too pacified by deliciousness to argue.

As the prophet George Costanza experienced...pastrami only makes life better. In fact, his girlfriend once said: "I find the pastrami to be the most sensual of all the salted cured meats."

2) GREAT SENSE OF HUMOR: Go ahead...name me an Islamic or Christian comedian who is hilarious. I'm giving you time. Think hard. Dane Cook? Good luck with that.

Jewish people are hilarious. Let's just be honest. Even unintentionally...Jews are hilarious. All the way from The Marx Brothers to Seth Rogen...Jews know how to joke around.

Christians? Jeff Foxworthy. Go ahead. Try and laugh at him. If Jews were running the world, there would be too many awkward Larry David-esque exchanges to start a war...we'd be too busy arguing over dinner portions or tip amounts.

3) DOCTORS AND LAWYERS: We've got your ass if you're sick. Have you ever been to a BAD Jewish doctor? Seriously, think back...when have you gone to a Jewish MD, and left thinking "boy, I really didn't get A+ service" ? Sure, we might charge an arm and a leg, but at least we made sure that said extremities are still attached to your body.

As for Lawyers...who would be left to sue the Christian doctors who fucked you up? 'Innocent' Murderer OJ Simpson's lawyers? Robert Shapiro, Alan Dershowitz. Convicted murderer Scott Peterson's lawyer? Mark Geragos.

Case closed. Go with Jews if you want to get away with murder.

4) WE'RE GOOD WITH MONEY: OK, Do I need to even go further than this?:

Clinton's budget surplus under Jewish treasury secretary Robert Rubin? $127 billion

Bush's budget deficit under Christian treasury secretary Henry Paulson? $482 billion

We run the world and even starving African Children will be enjoying $14 Pastrami Sandwiches AND leaving a big tip for mediocre service. Let's just be honest.

5) WE AREN'T WHITE: Lest you be mistaken, Jews ain't white. We're not even close to being white. White people have a history of being Oppressors. Jews have a history of being Bagel Eaters. Shit, we couldn't even do that in most places. We had to eat bagels in basements under a blanket while bleaching our hair strawberry blonde. Do you even know how often we've been oppressed? Check this shit out.

Like once every 100 years, 20% of us are murdered and kicked out of wherever we are. That's why we've been around for 3000 years, but we're only .2 percent of the world's population.

This ain't about being religious. A lot of Jews are secular. In fact, we celebrate being secular.

Here are but a few Jewish "non-believers"

Albert Einstein

Sigmund Freud

Emma Goldman

Karl Marx

Woody Allen (I'm assuming)

David Cronenberg

David Cross

Stephen Jay Gould

Theodor Herzl

Mark Zuckerberg

Anyway, I'm sure the list goes on and on. I guess we've got good DNA, which means the Syrians, Palestinians, and Lebanese do too...maybe peace isn't so far off....

Go Ahead, Follow Me On Twitter

If you enjoy this blog (I apologize if you don't...actually I apologize if you do - I'll just apologize in general - I'm Jewish, after all), then you should follow me on Twitter. It's a lot like this blog - filled with self-loathing, depression and 140 characters about a naked Jewish man and his obsession with Doctor Who.  Awkward!

FOLLOW ME NOW! Because if you don't, I'll feel like my life is worthless - well, even more worthless than it already is. Do you actually want to be responsible for my suicide? You and that girl that didn't kiss me in the 7th grade? Do YOU HEAR THAT Rachel Shmerin! It's all your fault if I die!

Either way, follow me, or the courts will somehow find you guilty of murdering me, even though this blog makes it pretty clear that I died of a sadness overdose while listening to an 8-track of Dexy's Midnight Runners. Honestly, how many men have sighed audibly while thinking about the implications of "coming on Eileen". Awkward!

I hate answers

I hate answers. Really fucking hate answers. Questions? Love 'em. Answers? Definitely a letdown. Questions are always magnificent - complex and alluring, like a space prostitute. Answers, always underwhelming - sad and lonely, like an actual prostitute. In a way, answers are the like sequels to life's questions. There's all this build up, and then once you experience it - you're kind of like, why'd I bother waiting around for that?

Exception that proves the rule: Star Trek II.

TOP TEN ANSWERS I HATE HEARING:

1) Yes, I will, but you're going to have to stop crying.
2) No, I won't. Please stop crying.
3) Only if you agree to listen to "Lightning Crashes" by Live.
4) I thought we were just friends.
5) I thought we were just friends that gave herpes to each other.
6) No, I'm not Doctor Who, I just play him on TV. Why aren't you adhering to the stipulations of the restraining order? Police! Police! This man is naked!
7) I told you, Mr. Manson, a plea of insanity is no excuse for public nudity...even if it's Doctor Who related.
8) Actually, I prefer to get my news from Twitter.
9) No, I'm more of a Fox News girl.
10) I hate Jews, but I will sleep with you to get back at my anti-Semitic father.

My exes get into a room together....

All the girls I've ever hooked up with got into a room to discuss what that experience was like. Some winced, a few smiled, most said "who?".

The moderator reminded them by reading my self-penned biography called "Pork on my Plate: Confessions of a Guilty Jew". NYT bestseller if you ask me!

One girl had a hint of recognition. As she tilted her head into the prerequisite "I kinda remember" fashion, she spoke, "oh, him. We only hooked up because I was trying to get back at my anti-semitic father."

After that, various insults were hurled in iambic pentameter (the english major) and truncated half-english (the film major). They were mostly about my lack of finesse. That girl I "teethed" in 1995 spoke thusly, "my gleaming pearly whites clanked awkwardly against his yellowish coffee-stained chompers as if they were fighting in a 'Star Wars'-like fantasy film. I hate him and the past that I'm attempting to leave behind out of horrible shame".

It was like an "I despise Matt" convention, which interestingly enough, was very similar to my family reunions, except fewer middle aged people trying to convince me to go into Chiropody.

"What was something you liked about him?", the moderator quizzed my various exes.

Dead silence. Quiet as night, as if to say "yeah, he was OK, but in retrospect, Hitler was about 10% more caring".

Finally, that Italian girl with that hugely inappropriate Daffy Duck tattoo raised her hand, "Well, he didn't rape me. And he definitely had the opportunity. I mean, you gotta respect a guy who doesn't rape you". She shrugged.

They all clapped. Shouts of "yeah, no rape!" and "I was never intimidated by him!" were heard in the distance. One girl even shrieked, "He was crying so much after we hooked up, I thought I raped him!". Sorry, Enna, but it was totally worth crying about and yes, fingers should not end up below the male equator. Have you no shame?

Then all my exes convened for a vote - "was Matt kissing you or did you feel like he was a dainty lady - a delicate flower frightened of intimate contact for fear of blowing away, like a fragile piece of dust in the wind?" I can't legally announce the results of the vote, but sufficed to say, they pretty much thought I was a woman. I mean, yeah, my boobs are pretty juicy and supple, but me - dainty? Please! I'm much closer to being delectable. I'm a fucking delicacy, thank you very much - tasty and full of high caloric portions.

After the meeting was over, a few of the lady friends stuck around to talk to each other. They agreed on only three facts:

1) Matt enjoys super lame British stuff from the 80s
2) his tongue is like an electric eel that ran out of battery power and died a horrible, non-engergetic death.
3) there is no number thee because they can't remember enough about him to come up with three facts.

At dusk, the meeting hall was empty and all the women went back to their respective boyfriends. I sat alone, smoking some meat, wondering what would have happened with my life had I stayed with any of the ladies. Then my meat caught fire and a bunch of Mexican day-laborers died in the blaze. I realized that if I was still with any of those women, none of the laborers would have died. Then I became a republican and decided it was better for them laborers to die than for me to have continued dating any of these women. After all, illegal immigration is making our children gay! Where's the birth certificate? I hate health care benefits! Deny the fuck out of me! Reagonomic-gasm all over me!

Tasty!

My Beard Fills That Giant, Unhappy Void

My face was feeling lonely. "Matt", my face said, "I'm lonely". That's how I knew my face was lonely. I never did quite figure out how it was able to talk to me, but that's a different story and potentially a b-plot in a Young Ones spec script that I'll never write.

So, to appease my face, I grew a beard. The only problem is that I technically can't grow a beard. I've run many o' academic tests and the scientific result was "patchy rabbi beard". But regardless, I tried. Then I tried again...and again. This was the best that I could come up with:



So not unlike my sex and professional life, my best was not even close to being enough. I looked like Zachary Qunito after about 15 minutes of not shaving. After that little factoid hit me, I cried just enough so that each hair on my chin was duly watered.

But here I am, sitting beardful, wondering why being beardful is even worth mentioning (or indeed if beardful is even a word). At some point in your life you have to wonder if anything's worth mentioning. There hasn't been a time in the last 15 years that my father hasn't said "oh, you know, the same old" after I asked him how he was doing. The difference? I'm 30 and he's almost 70. I appear to have settled into a rut nice and early and this fucking beard is the most interesting thing to have happened to me since my local Fox affiliate replayed season 6 of The Simpsons. Epic, if you ask me. Who the fuck did shoot Mr. Burns? I know damn well it wasn't that baby.

So here I sit, gently fondling my beard, rubbing it up and down in a shake weight-style fashion, wondering if life isn't slowly passing me by.

But on the plus side, the faster life passes me by, the quicker my beard grows. That's when I no longer look like Zachary Quinto and if that isn't some little semblance of solace, I don't know what is.

Welcome to the 21st Century/Hell

Guy at coffee shop gets out of his seat and screams "YES. OH. MY. GOD! THIS IS FUCKING UNBELIEVABLE!". He clasps his hands on his head and runs his fingers through his hair in amazement, like a mathematician who has figured out how to divide by zero.  Literally no one responds, so he inches in to the dude sitting next to him and says, "I AM ON THE FRONT PAGE OF TWITTER!". 

The dude politely smiles and goes back to drinking his coffee. Our hero then jumps out of his seat and paces around the shop, yelling "OH SHIT, OH SHIT!" for about thirty seconds at a louder than normal voice. He heads  to the counter, and tells the barista "This...is...the...HAPPIEST DAY OF MY LIFE! ONE OF MY TWEETS IS ON THE FRONT PAGE OF TWITTER!". The barista says "That's cool. Are you trending or something?" and he responds, "I'm not trending, but my tweet is one of the top tweets of the hour. Can you believe that?"

I glance at him for a brief second and he looks at me, shakes his head in disbelief and just says "YES", while giving a righteous fist pump usually reserved for oppressed minorities rising up against dictatorships.

I Miss The Cold

It sounds crazy, right? But I was watching a clip from today's Today Show and I saw that it was 17 degrees this morning in New York City. Honestly...I kinda got a halfie. Not a "Pamela Anderson circa 1996 when she didn't look like a space prostitute" halfie, but a "hey, I miss that feeling" halfie.

It's actually hard living in 75 and sunny every day. It's like Groundhog Day without the comically amusing premise. It's more of a comically depressing premise. I mean, I've heard of people with Seasonal Affective Disorder (or S.A.D., where the name is actually the saddest part), but I've got something like Hot Environment Revealing a Place of Everlasting Summer disorder, or HERPES. That's right, I've got HERPES and it's driving me nuts! That, or it's making my nuts itch. Either way, I should really see a doctor.

75 and Sunny is for the blond haired ne'er-do-well who wears a winter coat if it dips below 65, 75 and Sunny is for the person who shivers under a blanket if they can see their breath outside, 75 and Sunny is for the half-man, half-pectoral muscle, who is constantly afraid of encountering a thought other than "dude, my tan is totally awesome".

So, I call upon you, Californians United Nationally for Temperature Normality, or C.U.N.T. NORMS, to complain when the weather is "perfect"...because there's no such thing as perfection, and if you think there is, then you really should start watching more television. That should disavow you of that particular notion.

Jewish Ramblings (I channel my ancestors)

Rabbi Moshe Bagelwitz sat idly pondering his existence. "Now + here = nowhere", he thought.

Wow, that should be on a teeshirt. Let me etsy that little shmear of insightful intellectualism.

Then he googled the phrase and realized that no one, ever, at any point, has ever thought of anything remotely original.

The idea that any idea is original isn't even original, he thought. Oy...how am I to make a living in a contradictory world that requires original thought, but lacks all original thought? Just look at Hollywood's summer 2011 line up. It's a Quantum Leap-esque folly of reruns, hasbeens and why-evers.

The Rabbi wondered - what can I say to my congregation that will inspire them? What's a Jew to do, to do the Jews true? How can one man inspire dozens when he doesn't feel too inspired himself?

So, the Rabbi got incredibly drunk on Manischewitz. Sadly "Kosher Drunk" just means sitting around complaining about your surroundings in a slightly louder voice than you would normally complain about your surroundings. His realizations were uninspired and frankly, a little too expensive to be spending on wine. $6.99 on a bottle. Why, for the same price at Trader Joe's, a man can get yogurt cheese (for the ulcer), a bar of fine middle-eastern chocolate (for the pain-killing deliciousness), with still $2 left over for the finest Charles Shaw money can by. Oh, the prices are so savory. Better than sex, which the Rabbi never had - not because he's a rabbi, but because his penis looks like an inside out vagina.

Moshe needed something - anything - to get him to inspired. So, he turned to drugs. Not illicit drugs, mind you, but anti-Anxiety medication. He was thinking of doing some of "the weed" or "the grass", or whatever they called it, but then realized that he might get arrested and sent to jail, where skinheads rape Jews. Then his mother, what if his mother found out? She'd probably die, but before she did, she'd tell everyone how Moshe used to dress up in her flower-colored brassiere, put on Neon lipstick and sing Culture Club b-sides when he was 7 years old. How could he take one hit of the pot if it would definitely, without a doubt, lead to this? After he told his therapist these thoughts, she quickly prescribed him anti-anxiety medication. She wasn't an MD, mind you, but simply wrote what he said down verbatim and the pharmacist happily gave him whatever drugs would shut him up.

So Moshe was stuck - his attempts to find inspiration were uninspired. That's when he realized that the only original thought anyone can have is the one that doesn't exist. So, he killed himself to find out what not existing felt like.

In truth, it felt not too shabby. He didn't have to worry about rent, he didn't have to worry about love, and Heaven's got a pretty decent deal on second-hand lox with capers and a fresh garlic bagel. The only thing...the capers are a little too salty. I mean, really? You need to make capers even more salty? It's not enough to have high blood pressure, but the food you eat has to give you cardiovascular disease as well? I mean, I like a little salt, but does my food need to bathe in it? I'm just going to send it back and write a bad review on Yelp. Still going to tip 20% because these people work hard - they've got to send money back to Mexico or wherever they're from - I don't care, I'm sure they need it more than I do. But to be honest, it's been a little tight what with the kids in college and my ex renting that place on the Upper East Side. She needed a balcony like I needed a hole in the head - but she's got a much better lawyer than me. My cousin Richard knows nothing from lawyering, why do I listen to this schmuck's recommendations? Because I'm cheap and stupid, I am. Oy gevalt - I deserve it.

The Comment I Can't Reject/Accept

Since September I've had the same comment awaiting approval:

Happy 9/11 you Krist-killin' Pentagon-poundin' tower-topplin' Ziocon! 

I don't have the heart to reject it, because it makes me feel like an outsider and I strive to be an outsider. Not "using tears as lubricant while making sweet love to my rabbit" outsider, but an outsider from the status quo. The only problem is that classifying oneself as an "outsider" is a pretty status quo thing to do. 

It's ouroboros, the snake eating its tail -which incidently is a lot like my sex life. But enough about crying!

I obviously didn't want to approve the comment for fear that it would seem like I tolerate such malarky. I'm not 100% sure it is malarky, but I like typing the word so that's what you're stuck reading. I don't care, I'm lazy and can't be bothered to think up a better word. That's how little I regard you, kind reader. Well, I guess I regard you enough to call you kind, but that's more rancorous sarcasm than anything else.

Anyway, if you feel the need to comment on the blog try to steer clear of referring to me as a Ziocon (which I assume is a portmanteau of "Zionist" and "Neocon" - neither of which I am). However, feel free to call me handsome, creative or a chronic sobber with a penchant for self-hating verbal masturbation. 

All of which I assume are true. At least the last one. OK, maybe not all of the last one, but at least the masturbation part.

My Writing/Directing Reel

Full of spots, advertisements, commercials, music videos, award-winning short films and web shows. My personal favorite is "Workertron3000: Office Robot", which I love (but then again, I'm a sucker for robots!)...it's towards the end.

Anyway, if you are curious, feel free to watch and let me know what you think. Also, please note that the email addy on the reel isn't currently functional:


MMs Reel from Matt M on Vimeo.