Why My Last Job Sucked Balls

I used to work at a certain video-sharing/social networking site founded by a certain former CEO of another, much more successful social networking site. Vague enough for you? Well, I did sign an NDA, so it's neither here nor there. Let's just say the place was a mess.

There were precious few competent people who worked there. In fact, most were just friends of the CEO who had no previous on-line or even remotely related experience. One used to be a waiter, but he was handsome, in shape and did a bunch of coke, so he was hired as the "creative director", something he had no experience doing (he was an actor/waiter...c'mon!)

We were not judged on metrics (I ran several successful shows with tens of thousands of fans, yet I was never even offered a pat on the back, let alone a promotion), but judged on politics.

Anyway, here's a few observations about that company, which will stick with me forever:

There's a certain ramshackle charm to working around a bunch of incompetent losers.

1) First; you know that you're better then everyone else. and that's not an immodest statement here; the special ed kid in my sixth grade class would be Warren Buffet in this situation.

2) Secondly; there's no rational expectation of success. When there are no goals set for yourself, or even the company in general, it's every man for himself. These new breed of websites are such uncharted territory that barely anyone understood what was going on or what "achieving something" meant. I always tried my best, but after a while, it became evident that I defined my own success to those around me:


SCENE:
Matt sits in a room with three other co-workers who are checking their Myspace pages.

Matt is watching Dr. Who.

INCOMPETENT MANAGER WALKS IN:

Manager: Hey Matt, what are you up to today?
Matt: I just added 100 friends to our show's channel!
Manager: Wow, that sounds awesome!

Manager Leaves.

Co-worker turns to Matt.

Co-Worker: Didn't you have 100 friend requests when you woke up this morning? All you did today was hit "accept all"?
Matt: Shut up, I'm watching Dr. Who.

3) My co-workers were so drugged up, it was hilarious. Life was amazingly terrible at that company, and literally everyone tried to escape through getting fucked up.

There were three types:

-Martini Girls At Lunch: The group of girls who would get so drunk during lunch that they could barely walk in straight. Secretaries, HR people, Assistants.
-High Creative Types: In order to fulfill the tedious, non-creative work that many of my co-workers were given, they all got high. Even when they were high, no one noticed, because everyone else at the company was so retarded, that they fit in just fine.
-Coked Up Agent Types: This is the funniest bunch, because I personally dealt with a sports agent all the time who was so coked up, that he was awake around the clock writing emails and making plans for partnerships (that never happened because the company was obviously a huge mess to anyone who came in). Since he was so hyper all the time, he used to speak in these ridiculous sports metaphors:

Come on guys! We've got to hit a home run on this and score a touchdown. This partnership is on the one yard line and we've got to kick the soccer ball in the net! Hockey lacrosse foosball!

That's literally how he spoke.

Anyway, I quit and I'm happy I did.

I ran into a former co-worker recently who, for some reason, has NOT quit. He smiled when he spoke, but his eyes belied a person who was dead inside.

"So Matt", he said. "Do you regret quitting at all?"
"No"
"You sure, not a little bit? Nothing you regret?".
I could tell he was desperate, so I gave him what he wanted.
"Well, I guess I miss working with the actors from my show".
"I knew it!", he exclaimed.

We spoke for a few minutes before he asked me what I was doing.

When I told him I was still making videos, he asked me if I still had his email, and then he told me that he would love to work with me in the future.

Good times.

Matt's The Art Of Flirting

"Boy Matt, How Are You So Successful With The Ladies?"
"Matt, I Notice All The Women Staring At You. How Do You Do It?"
"Sir, Would You Please Stop Fondling My Underthings?"

These are questions I get every single day.

How am I so popular? Let me "tip" you some tips on how to pick up on the lady-types.

1) Awkwardly Compliment Them: Nothing says "I'm an Lothario" like awkward compliments. Try saying something like "That's a really cool lower back tattoo. Not that I was staring. I mean, I was, but not in a weird way. I'm going to leave you alone now".
2) Never Make Eye Contact: Looking at a girl in the face is a mistake. Whenever you address them, look at the floor, towards other women in the area, or, if possible, at their chest. Nothing says sexy like feeling so insecure about yourself that you're unable to look in their general direction.
3) Don't Let Them Know You Like Them: If you can, try and make it seem like you have no interest in them whatsoever. Do they want to "go back to your place to watch TV?", then tell them that your cable is out. Sure, when you realize an hour later that they actually wanted to have sex with you and you blew your only chance, you'll feel like an ass; but at least you'll have piece of mind (which is better than piece of ass, mind you)

Let's "play" a little play to show you what to do in a difficult situation:

You are alone at home and it's 11:30 at night. You've just received the following text message from Hot Lady Friend (HLF)

I have mozzarella sticks to give you. May I come over? LOL OMFG WINK

Thinking to yourself that you're not actually hungry, but you like mozzarella sticks, you say "OK"

Let's take the scene from there.

She knocks on the door.

You: Hello "HLF".

She hands you the mozzarella sticks.

HLF: Hope you like them.

You take a bite and realize they are lukewarm. You grimace.

HLF: Oh, is something wrong?

You: Nothing.

HLF: That's good...

You: I mean, it's just that they're lukewarm. I guess I can microwave them.

She stares at you for a second and bites her lip, suggestively.

You: So, today was really temperate, wasn't it?

She gazes deeply in your eyes, and you look down.

REMEMBER, NEVER MAKE EYE CONTACT!

You think, "I bet she wants you to kiss her. Probably best not to. What if she doesn't want you to kiss her and she claims rape? Also, it would be totally embarrassing".

THIS IS WHEN THE AWKWARD COMPLIMENT COMES IN!

You: Your hair looks much nicer then it did yesterday. Not that it looked bad yesterday, I mean, it looks especially nice today.

Now she's very uncomfortable (just where you want her!)

You: I guess I'll microwave these now.

HFL: Well, I guess I should go then.

You: OK, thanks for the mozzarella sticks!

She leaves, shaking her head.

END SCENE.

Remember, if she doesn't leave shaking her head, then you haven't done your job.

So, I hope these tips are useful, and remember:

ACT:

Awkwardly
Compliment
Them

CRY:

Eye Contact
Really
Troublesome

DEHKUKE

Don't
lEt
tHem
Know
yoU
liKe
thEm

And remember, a dehkuke a day keeps the doctor away!

It's pronounced deh-kookie, BTW.

Porn-No

Last Thursday I was taking an innocent drive down Silver Lake Boulevard in Los Angeles. I was quite close to Griffith Park and the houses were rich, colorful and very obviously built for the country-club set. That's why the porno that was being shot outside of one seemed quite out of place.

"Porno", you ask yourself? "Matt, are you taking those funny pills again?", you might say. Well, SHUT YOUR FILTHY WHORE MOUTH FOR DOUBTING ME.

Driving my fancy-pants BMW convertible, I caught a huge ass out of the corner of my eye. Usually, I wouldn't notice such a thing, but this ass (even in my periphery) was an object to behold; other asses sit around campfires, sipping whiskey and recounting their ever-so-brief encounters with this ass. Ass historians will write books analyzing this ass's place in the pantheon of wondrous asses. If Paul McCartney had seen this posterior in 1968, the song would be called "Hey Ass". Did I mention it was huge?

Anyway, as I turned to look, I saw the woman the ass was attached to. Now, I'm not one to judge: but she definitely had no soul behind her eyes and her spirits had been crushed by years of never-ending abuse and severe drug problems. Did I mention her ass was huge?

Standing on the street, dressed in a cut-off tee that exposed underboob, and cut off jean shorts that exposed ass-crack, she stood next to a pole, caressing her body and staring directly into a camera, which was being held by a man who looked like he was just happy to be there.

The kicker was her co-star in the video; standing in a wife-beater exposing a thin, wiry frame with skull tattoos, his black hair was slicked back and a pubic-hair mustache sat limply above his top lip. His lips were perched into a what seemed like a frozen kiss and I heard him make various grunting noises at his lady companion.

It was like something out of a Fellini movie. I mean, I enjoy porn as much as the next sex-crazed inveterate pervert, but seeing it being shot took all the mystique out of it. The magic was gone! Say it ain't so, pornographic producer...say it ain't so.

Who would have thought Pornography was so depressing, filled with degenerate lowlifes taking advantage of broken souls who have no hope of redemption? It came as a complete shock to me! It literally turned my world upsidedown. Left is right and right is left, apple sauce tastes like oysters and if you fry tacos in green tea they taste like shoes.

That said, I will continue to watch pornography with no compunction whatsoever. I gotta support the arts, you know?

Anyway, here's a few tips to pornographers to make all our experiences better:

1) NO CLOSE UPS: Jesus Christ, do we need to see the ass herpes, razor burns and track marks? At least put a blur filter on.
2) NEVER, EVER, CUT TO THE DUDE: We don't want to see that muscular, ape looking gentleman going "oooh, yeah, bitch, pussy time!" while grimacing with all the sexual machismo of Pauly Shore and Carrot Top's illegitimate lovechild.
3) WHAT'S UP WITH THE SHOTS OF THE IN-AND-OUT: I know what sex looks like, thank you very much. Do we need a close up of the old "in-and-out" for 90% of the video? If pornography is supposed to be a sex-surrogate, then my question is, who the hell has sex and stares at a penis entering a vagina the entire time? Try it. I betcha your sex partner will call the police.
4) NO GAPE/STRETCHING BODY PARTS, PLEASE: Since when has pornography become an anatomy lesson?...What's inside should be inside, and no matter what: it's not sexy. I literally vomit tears each and every time we begin to "take a look". I will say nothing further for fear my fingers will commit suicide.

The Stolen Earth

I have two rabbits: Shlomo and Caramel.


Are you asking yourself what sort of 27 year old man (dare I say "man") has two bunnies? Is it that having two rodents living with me eases the never-ending loneliness caused by an escapeless abyss-like depression? Is it that they are my best, and only friends? Could it possibly be that I model for them naked in order to watch them recoil in disgust, thereby confirming my life-long thesis: Naked Jews Are Never Sexy To Rabbits?

Some questions are better left unanswered.

You might also wonder: what sort of man names his rabbits Shlomo and Caramel? Well, kind, gentle, voluptuous, sexually voracious reader, I'll let you in on a little secret...I only named one of them. Can you guess which one?

5 things you might not know about rabbits:

1) They eat their poop.
2) They taste delicious in a white-wine sauce.
3) They LOVE it when you pick them up and call them "wuggums".
4) They don't laugh at you when you discuss your hopes and dreams.
5) They are alcoholics (check above picture closely to see what I mean)...that's why we get along so famously.

I think the most important question I can ask myself; why am I writing about Rabbits? The answer, kind sir/lady, is I dunno. Not even "I don't know" but "I dunno". I don't even have enough inspiration créatrice to write it out fully.

So confused am I that I must truncate my language. I guess that means I have little slash nothing to say or write. At least my rabbits are fucking cute. Right?


Are they cute? I can't tell...

My Computer Is My Friend, Right?

There's nothing wrong with personifying my computer
it's silver, luscious and sweet
if someone tried to mug me, my computer would be all like
"hey, fuck off, that dude's awesome"
then the mugger would kill me
and the computer would be sad for not feeling sad:
"WHY CAN'T I FEEL HU-MAN EMOTIONS?"
then it would go have a computer orgy with a coupla 386s to forget
because my computer likes floppy discs
still, it left me to die
why didn't my computer call 911?
perhaps it's anti-Semitic
fuck!

BTW, i think this is actually a picture of a dream i've been having for 20 odd years...(NSFW...unless you work in an awesome place)

The Girl with the Jello feet

The Girl with the Jello feet

The girl with the Jello feet walked
wobbly
but with a swagger
like "yeah, i've got fucking jello feet, wanna dance, maestro?"
one day the dogs came
frothing, seething wet
munched her legs into nothingness
and now she's the girl with no feet
and whenever she has dessert in her hospital bed
she feels like a cannibal


I Have No Regrets

I have no regrets
except everything i've ever done
well, that's not true
one time i had this really delicious hummus
it was a good life choice
i can't think of anything else

Friday Nights With The Crew

INT. APARTMENT - DAY

IAN, MATT, FRANCI sit on couches.

FRANCI
What did you guys do this weekend?

IAN
Oh man, you know what goes on for me.
Beers and chicks...beers and chicks.

CUT TO:

INT. DINING ROOM - DAY

IAN is wearing NERD GARB and playing dungeons and dragons.

IAN
My plus 5 broadsword is too much for
your lame ass paladin spell.

A NERD looks upset.

NERD
Fuck you, Ian.

Ian SLAPS the Nerd.

IAN
My name is Skulltor the magnificent.

CUT TO:

INT. APARTMENT - DAY

FRANCI
What about you, Matt?

MATT
Oh, you know, spent some quality
time with the girlfriend.

CUT TO:

INT. BEDROOM - DAY

Matt's GIRLFRIEND is crying.

MATT
What? Your ass does look fat...
I'm not going to lie.

CUT TO:

INT. BEDROOM - LATER

GIRLFRIEND
My mother was right: you're
nothing but a failure!

MATT
YOUR MOTHER IS A WHORE!

CUT TO:

INT. BEDROOM - LATER

Matt has a black eye. He's carrying a CARDBOARD BOX labeled "MY STUFF"

MATT
Well, I gathered everything I own,
been nice dating you.

HIS GIRLFRIEND IS DEAD...

lying next to a bunch of pills...

MATT (CONT'D)
Oh great, now you're dead.

CUT TO:

INT. APARTMENT - DAY

IAN
What about you, Franci?

FRANCI
Oh, you know...nothing much.

CUT TO:

INT. BEDROOM - DAY
Franci is looking into the mirror...crying.

FRANCI
I HATE YOU SO MUCH.

She TAKES A SWIG OF BOOZE and begins to move towards kissing her REFLECTION.

CUT TO:

INT. APARTMENT

They all look at each other and HUG.

Suggestions For Social Networking Relationship Status:

1) It's Not Actually Complicated, I Just Barely Like You Enough To Have Sex With
2) In A Sham Relationship With
3) Single, But Masturbating a Shitload
4) Slowly Dying Inside With
5) Not Putting A Status, Because My Girlfriend Is Too Ugly To Let People Know About Her
6) Having Sex With Minority From Work To Get Back At My Parents
7) Having Sex, But Praying It Remains No-Strings-Attached With

Vegas Hotel Rooms

Currently in a not-as-nice-as-I'm-used-to hotel. Nothing "wrong" with it per se, but the scrambled egg colored walls and able-to-watch-myself-having-sex-with-a-prostitute mirrors behind the bed really call the quality of the place into question.

You ever stare at your hotel remote control and think to yourself "gee, I wonder how many people ordered porn with it, then masturbated in its immediate vicinity?" Do the cleaning ladies wash the remote? I think not!

So, basically, while flipping the channels looking for something funny to ease the unending loneliness of a hotel room, I'm actually jacking some dude off. Good times!

Whatever stays in Vegas, right? For many, that includes drug benders, truculent sex with various anonymous partners, winning/losing several months salary while wearing nothing but a rainbow suspenders and a sock. For me, it's long periods of reading interrupted by spastic crying fits.

NICE!

Anal Porn

INT. IAN'S ROOM - DAY
Ian sits in his bed, reading "Modern Bride" magazine.

Josh comes in, acting suspiciously nonchalant.

JOSH
Good afternoon, Ian!

IAN
(not again)
Afternoon, Josh.

JOSH
Wondering if I could...

IAN
...borrow some things?

JOSH
That would be perfect. Let's see...

He goes through some of Ian's things.

JOSH (CONT'D)
This Economist from February of 2006. Boy those
mid-term elections sure are sneaking up on us fast.

More stuff.

JOSH (CONT'D)
These Groucho Marx glasses: Well, the social calendar
is really lighting up these days; never know when
comedic eyewear might tickle a funny bone or two.

He gets a SERIOUS look in his eyes and runs over to Ian's SOCK DRAWER.

HE tosses ALL OF THE SOCKS OUT OF HIS DRAWER and pulls out a DVD:

"ANAL SLUTS 45".

JOSH (CONT'D)
What's this? Anal Sluts 45?

IAN
Yup.

JOSH
Is this a "pornographic" movie?

He examines the DVD.

JOSH (CONT'D)
More gape then all other Anal Slut videos combined?
Oh my; That's a lot of gape, isn't it?

IAN
Yes, it's the most gape legally
allowed in the United States.

JOSH
Wow! Really? That's intriguing!

He smirks and shakes his head, in a faux gesture of nationalism.

Only in America!

Ian smiles and nods faintly.

JOSH (CONT'D)
You know, I don't think I can fit all of these
things in my hands. I guess I'll just put back
The Economist from February, 2006.

He puts it away.

JOSH (CONT'D)
Oh, and let's see...I guess the Groucho glasses.
Maybe I'll also grab this giant container of
hand cream as well; you never know when
you need moisturizing!

IAN
Sounds about right.

JOSH
Gee, you know, I'm so intrigued by this sexual
documentary that I'm going to pop it into my computer
right this instant! Is it alright if I leave the door open?
Watch it without headphones?

IAN
That's terrific.

JOSH
Great! See you in 3 minutes!

He runs out.

Ian pulls a bottle of WHISKEY from under his pillow and takes a swig.

Arab Girls Go Jihad on Jewish Cocks!

Note to LimeWire: I searched for "Chicks on Speed", so why, prey tell did "Arab Girls Go Jihad On Jewish Cocks" come up? Also, what's going "Jihad" on that particular part of the male anatomy mean? Does she attach a bomb to her vagina? Is there such a thing as a "sexy Jihad" or is that extremely tasteless, like Denny's?

Speaking of Denny's, I recently (via social network website #52523) got in contact with an old high school buddy of mine, I'll call him Rich. Rich (a pudgy, nerdy-Jew type) was the kind of guy you could sit with watching TV, shooting the shit, or confide in. He really was a great friend. I was a grade ahead of him, and I noticed towards the end of my senior year he began to drink. Not like, "Oh, hey, I'm going to sip this Bud Light and act silly" drink; like, "I'm going to down these two bottles of wine in ten minutes, pop a bunch of pain killers and fall down a flight of stairs" drink.

Rich had never drank or done drugs before, so it concerned me that I wouldn't be around for his senior year to keep him in check. I pulled him aside the day I graduated and had a talk with him.

"Rich, don't smoke pot and cut down the drinking...it's just going to get you crazy"
"Definitely, man"

Needless to say, I returned the next year to visit, and he:

1) Put glue in his hair often (he didn't like gelling it every day, and it made the points stick up higher)
2) Had various things cut into his arm (names, random words, little teardrops)
3) Had lost about 30 pounds.

I checked in with him and asked him what happened:

"Well, man, you told me not to smoke pot, so I skipped straight to cocaine".

Ahh, I thought...very didactic. At least he's a good listener.

Anyway, he became this very strange creature: when I was in school with him, we'd spend our nights watching movies, playing video games and generally joking around. When I hung out with him this time, we sat around doing literally nothing until he insisted on going to Denny's at 5am.

"Really, you want to go to Denny's at 5am?"
He was pacing back at forth...
"Yes. I can't stay inside! GOTTA GO TO DENNY'S!"

Denny's Customer=Cokehead, I s'pose...

So, we went to a Denny's in central New Jersey at 5am. Admittingly, I was a Denny's virgin: and trapped in this Fellini-esque nightmare, I didn't order anything. Rich had 7 cups of coffee and some yellowish globs kindly referred to as "eggs".

When we left, he immediately vomited. I asked him if he was OK, and he told me that Denny's always made him vomit. Why keep going back? I asked. He didn't respond.

Anyway, I saw him once more in 2001; he was wearing a studded dog collar, had blue hair and smelled like he hadn't showered in several months. I asked him to remove the dog collar when my mom was around (he was spending the night at my mom's house) and he seemed really annoyed by that. He stayed up until 9am and didn't wake up until 5pm the next day. My mother thought he had died.

So, I haven't seen him in 7 years. Not sure what he's up to, but I'm supposed to visit him this month. Strangely enough, I am looking forward to it. I haven't eaten Denny's since, but perhaps it's time...

Tim Russert

Just a quick thought about Tim Russert.

I watch "Meet The Press" every Sunday. I find most political coverage (both network and ...yes, believe it or not, the blogosphere) filled with the inane partisan rants of narcissistic, power-hungry nincompoops who know nothing more about politics than you or I. Tim Russert was different.

He grilled both Democrats and Republicans furiously without seeming ideological in the least. During boringly asinine partisan panel discussions, Russert frequently calmed things. He kept his neutrality while pointing out contradictions from both sides; his strength was his ability to cut through absurd rhetoric and get to the heart of an issue. He knew what the truth was and strived to get the politicos to admit it.

He added wit, humor and a big smile to the political discussion and I will personally miss him and what he represented, journalistically: he was a reporter, not a talking head.

Here he is in one of his better moments, showcasing his ability to cut right through the bullshit:



Tim Russert, dead today at 58.

Dream Journal

Wednesday, January 11th:

Suddenly I am in Germany, 1942 wearing a yellow badge on my shirt. I am entirely surprised to find that it's not shaped like a star, but rather a bagel. Three SS officers grab me and drag me away.

They bring me to a dungeon-type basement; looking around, I notice a sign on the wall, which reads:

GESTAPO: BAGEL AND PASTRY DIVISION.

A grizzled Nazi with a long scar down the right side of his face comes in. His name is Herr Otto Klonkinhoffer.

Klonkinhoffer: Tell me where the cream cheese is.
Me (coy): What's cream cheese?
Klonkinhoffer: Tell me where the cream cheese is or your chocolate monkey gets it!
Me: Not Puddles!

He pushes a button and a curtain pulls back, revealing my Chocolate Monkey; blindfolded and shackled.

Puddles: Tell them nothing! Viva La Revolución!

Klonkinhoffer scoffs.

Klonkinhoffer: Tell me!

He pulls out a large glass of milk and a knife...covered in nougat.

Me: I...I don't know where the cream cheese is.
Klonkinhoffer: You can play coy with me, Mr. Manson, but remember, your chocolate monkey won't be the first dessert animal that I have eaten.

He points over to a rotting, half-eaten flan Zebra, chained to the wall.

Zebra: Kill...me...

Me: OK, OK...You'll find what you're looking for in the fridge!
Klonkinhoffer: Doesn't it feel good to be honest?

He looks over at his guards.

Klonkinhoffer: Eat the monkey.
Me: You promised, Klonkinhoffer!
Klonkinhoffer: My fingers were crossed.

He shows me his fingers, which somehow are curved into a Swastika.

Klonkinhoffer walks over to his fridge...

Klonkinhoffer: Finally, the last piece of the puzzle...

and opens it up....

Inside there's nothing but Vegan Cream Cheese.

Klonkinhoffer: Vegan? Are you kidding me? Hitler's gonna shvitz! I guess it'll have to do.

He pulls out a bagel and begins to spread it.

Klonkinhoffer: Hitler better like this.

15 minutes later Klonkinhoffer and his guards are hung for treason because Hitler thinks Vegan cream cheese is "not Aryan enough".

This gives rise to the great German-Vegan revolt of 1943, where 10,000 pale, thin hipsters with Star and Asian lettering Tattoos are massacred. They say that it's the beginning of the end for the great German empire and I am glad to be the man who started it all. I am also glad to be responsible for the death of so many Vegan-types.


Friday, October 16th:

I woke up in a cold sweat at 4am. Then I woke up in a cold sweat at 4am. Then I woke up in a cold sweat at 4am.

Then I woke up in a cold sweat at 4am with 12 voluptuous Nordic-types in bed, serving me chilled mojitos and discussing philosophy and the collected works of the Marx brothers. One of them knew David Bowie's oeuvre by heart and began to sing "Sound and Vision" with a sweet angelic voice, while the others engaged me in a long, drawn out chess game, which I won.

Later on, they stripped to their underwear and teased me until I told them politely that "I'm not that sort of guy". We watched the BBC sitcom "Peep Show" and ate scrumptious poached eggs and drank sweetly-mild freshly brewed coffee.

When I woke up at 9am, I realized that I might have some issues about sex.

Dr. Who Rick Rolled Me

By the way...if you haven't seen this episode...go out and do it. I'm considering hopping on the next plane to see my dad because of it...

BUH?

I guess I need to stop drinking...I mean, my routine of blacking out every night and waking up in a puddle of my own tears while stroking the nubile carcass of a prostitute is perfectly acceptable...but shitty writing is NOT.

Last Wednesday night I went to Las Vegas for work. My cameraman Ian and I decided to take a "load off" and have a few drinks at the local grogshop. This, of course, led to hours of discussion about philosophy, childhoods and the invariable blabbings of career and life goals. At some point after my 5th vodka martini, I got massively drunk.

I remember coming back to the hotel, saying goodnight to Ian, writing a few emails and going to sleep. Actually, the emails I sent (when I read them the next morning) were probably MORE coherent then I would normally compose. But, just now, while looking over my unpublished bloggings, I stumbled upon this; written at 3:45am that night:

i have a long, didactically boring explination as to whether or not a higher power exists. I have no idea if it's true. In fact, there are only a few thingsthat are consitantly funny.
ogcoutsr, this dude, got out and chasre

First thought is that I spelled didactically correct yet managed to misspell consistently ("consitantly" sounds like a coincidence that happened by accident)...second thought is what the hell was I going on about?

ogcoutsr, this dude, got out and chasre? Is ogcoutsr the name of the dude or a Dr Who Villan? Chasre? is that an olde English way of saying "chaser"? In my drunken state, did I manage to channel a dead language?

Do I really have a didactically boring "explination" as to whether or not a higher power exists, or is my answer "I really have no idea"? And what does that have to do with a lack of consistently funny things? Would I have a stronger Theological position if "Two and a Half Men" was a riot?

Also, the phrase "didactically boring "explination" as to whether or not a higher power exists" makes me sound like a first year film student who's just read Sarte for the first time.

I now feel the need study Buddhism, cry while watching "Fight Club" and blast Radiohead as loud as I possibly can. (I am describing someone...but that person is a very nice, talented person).

First rule of Fight Club...don't get drunk and blog.

My Application To Open Up a Deli

Dear Community Board 6,

This letter is to apply for a food and liquor license at 40523 Melrose Avenue in West Hollywood. We plan to open a deli-restaurant named "Jewsies" and serve big, delicious sandwiches, kosher wines and pastries. The location will not be secretly used to house middle-eastern sex-slaves.

Since we are near to so many nightclubs and bars, we believe it's important to stay open until 4am. We will adhere to all relevant noise pollution laws and have security to make sure that the community is kept safe. We will not, however, have a secret room where horny loners can pay a cross-eyed hooker named Shameer 10 dollars to give them hand relief.

The plans have been drawn up to have enough seating for 100 patrons. We would like to have outdoor space set aside to accommodate another 25. This is feasible because the sidewalk has a width of 12 feet, so with 6 feet of tables and chairs, there is more than enough room for pedestrians to pass by without disturbing community standards. Our location is large enough to house 125 people comfortably without being a fire hazard. In fact, there is enough additional room to fit 50 more people in our secret underground dungeon (provided they slept on the damp, cold floor), just to be safe.

We hope you consider our application and appreciate that "Jewsies" will be the perfect, family-friendly dining experience that our community needs. If you'd like to come by to check it out, please knock three times on the back entrance and say "swordwish" to our caretaker Mr. Saliva. He will show you around and not allow you to have free sex with our non-existent underage slaves.

I wanna be fed

Don't you miss being fed? I don't mean like "open up for the airplane!" kinda being fed, but that wonderful time of life when you woke up to a fresh scrumptious breakfast, went to school with a delicious brown paper bag lunch of goodness, and came home to a heartfelt dinner of yumminess.

I know, I know, "Matt be a man", "Matt, you're old enough to feed yourself", "Matt stop staring at my breasts". Well, I CAN'T, OK? I'M HUMAN!

This foodly reverie was a result of walking past a vending machine today. Not particularly hungry, yet extremely bored, I ordered a big bunch of sugar wafers. Delicious, yes; but I thought "gee, I wish I wasn't doing this!". Cue Sadness.

I fancied a time when I had my brown paper lunch bag with "MATT :)" written on it. Sure, those lunches were usually PB&J, celery sticks and apple juice, but at least I didn't have to have self-control. Lunch might have sucked, but that's all I got and I learned to enjoy it. Now, I'm all cookie binges, chocolate benders and glasses of fresh tears with a lime.

Talking about this reminds me of one time my father got into a lot of trouble when he made me lunch. Recently divorced, dad (never a gourmand) would usually prepare me left-over Chinese food, burnt toast or a yellow post it note with "lunch" written in sharpe.

Well, one time while making me lunch for school, he ran out of juice boxes. What did he do? Pour me some water? Nope. Give me some money to buy something at school? Nope.

He packed me some Bloody Mary Mix. When I pulled it out of my lunch bag, I was called into the principal's office and my mother was immediately contacted. They didn't arrest my dad, but a nine-year-old pulling out a bottle that reads "Just Add Alcohol!" must have given the teachers a pause for thought.

I suppose then, I still indulge in my childhood packed lunches...I love ordering Chinese food, I burn toast all the time and I'm a borderline alcoholic. Wish I took after my mom a little more...

Supporting McCain over Obama?

A lot of polls suggest that a significant amount of Clinton supporters will vote for McCain or not vote at all, because Obama won the nomination.

Just a thought; Clinton supporters are some of the most ardent feminists out there. They are severely disappointed because they feel like sexism caused Clinton's downfall (no comment on that theory). So, why on earth would these people want to support a McCain victory when he says this on his website:

"Overturning Roe v. Wade

John McCain believes Roe v. Wade is a flawed decision that must be overturned, and as president he will nominate judges who understand that courts should not be in the business of legislating from the bench.

Constitutional balance would be restored by the reversal of Roe v. Wade, returning the abortion question to the individual states. The difficult issue of abortion should not be decided by judicial fiat.
...

 As John McCain has publicly noted, "At its core, abortion is a human tragedy. To effect meaningful change, we must engage the debate at a human level." "

Uhh...so yeah...good luck with that, my lovely feminist.

Letter to 3:20 in the Morning

Dear 3:20am,

We need to talk. It's not you, it's me. We've been drifting apart.

I know we've had some really good times together: downloading pornography over the internet, watching British sitcoms on DVD, questioning whether or not I can bare to live the rest of my life without committing suicide; but I think it's time we "take a break".

It might not be permanent; who knows? Let's just tell our friends that we needed some "time apart". Maybe down the line, I'll go out to a party, stay out really late, and BAM! We'll see each other again. It's possible, right?

OK, I'll put all my cards on the table. I've been seeing someone else. 10am. Do you know her? She's a lot brighter than you, I feel much more alive with her, and frankly, I can still download porn anyway.

Don't you think we should be exploring our options? I'm still young and we've been seeing each other since I was a teenager. I mean, we were together pretty much every night in college...in fact, we were only apart when I was working those crazy hours on film shoots. You even followed me to Los Angeles. STOP STIFLING ME, YOU BITCH!

OK, I'll be even more honest. I never really had feelings for you: I only saw you because I'm an insomniac. The truth hurts, doesn't it? You know what else hurts? BEING WITH YOU ON A DAILY BASIS. YOU ARE DESTROYING MY SOUL, YOU WRETCHED HARPE!

I will look back on our time together with a fond reminiscence, but it's time we moved on. It'll be easier for you...trust me! There are plenty of other people looking for a time like you; sickly old people, lonely transients, the unemployable.

Good luck, and please don't respond. It'll be better for both of us.

Nakedly Fond,

~Matt.

Letter To People Who See Me and My Brother On the Street

Dear Strange Gentleman,

No, my brother and I are not twins. Thanks for asking. What, you want to mention that we look alike? Gee thanks. Wait, you want to continue talking about this? OK, sure, whatever you want. I certainly have nowhere better to go.

A-ha-ha. Yes. Uh huh. You definitely needed to stop and talk to us about this outside the San Fransisco Museum of Art. What? You aren't going in? You're just passing by? Where might you be going? A mental hospital? A desolate island where they put people who walk up to strangers and say "hey, are you guys twins?". Oh, you're going home. Well, that's too bad. I hope you die a painful death by rectal plunger insertion.

You're very welcome.

Love,

Matt.


Dear Middle-Aged Businessman,

Yes, in fact we do look alike; at least this is what we've heard. Sure, it's OK that you've stopped us in the middle of a crosswalk. No problem that the light is flashing "don't walk"...that's only a suggestion.

It IS hysterical how much we look alike. In fact, if you hadn't had pointed it out, then laughed for a good 5 seconds, I probably wouldn't have seen the hilarity of the situation. Now that you've mentioned it...pure comedy.

You could have SWORN we're twins? Well, that's fabulous! You have a terrific day too. Please die soon!

Sexily Yours,

Matt.

10 minute blog

Letter to my Father:
Dear Dad,

Seriously? You're a smart, handsome, physically strong, successful businessman with an astute understanding of high finance and a law degree. Why on earth did I only inherit your bad back and impatience with mindless conversation?

Sure, I could be running several successful businesses like you did, but hey, this whole "I can't stand small talk and OY! my back hurts" vibe is OK too.

Yeah, it's cool that you could bench press 300lbs when you were my age. But seriously, do I have to sweat when I eat?

Why take my sail boat out for a spin on an exclusive picturesque lake like you do on a weekly basis when I can be at a party, looking uncomfortable because the girl that's talking to me is really really boring? SHE'S PRETTY DAD!!! WHY DID YOU CURSE ME WITH A DISTASTE FOR THE MUNDANE???

Letter to my Mother:Dear Mom,

You sure are the best mom that a sonny could ask for; Caring, intellegent, selfless, and extremely pretty to boot. My question: Why did I only inherit your abilities to talk on and on about nothing and misplace common household items?

Sure, I could have articles written and videos made about my continuing efforts to help those who are mentally or terminally ill, but who wants that when I'm blabbering on about my missing socks with the last friend that can still bare to spend time with me?

Totally fine that I'm not a photographer's model like you were...but do I really have to be the guy who loses his keys every time he has to leave the house in a hurry? Where could I have got that from?...oh right, you.


Note: I love both my parents dearly and I know I've got some good things going on for myself. But seriously? I couldn't have inherited their better traits?

My First Love Letter: 3.22.04

Dearest Martha,

Your toes are like two dainty flowers; pickable, yet easily pollinated. Your other eight toes are alright, but not dainty...more like eight drying flowers that once had life, but are now slowly dying; much like my soul and this relationship.


Remember our time in Paris? No woman ever washed my socks like you. I shall always recall our conversation about God at the local brasserie: you insisting that there is an Almighty who controls our morality and me undressing the waitress with my eyes. Oh, will we ever enjoy kasha varnishkes like that again?


Making love to you is the most joyous experience of my life. The way you just lie there reading Faust, never orgasming, makes masturbation seem like a grotesque misadventure.


When I dream, I see your lovely incandescent face and the blue limpid pools that are your eyes. Sure, those eyes are crying because I forgot to put the toilet seat down and you fell into the vicious swamp that is our toilet bowl, but that's OK: WE LOVE EACH OTHER!


Foreverly yours,
Matt.


Postscript: I woke up the next morning to Martha setting my hair on fire, cutting Swastikas into her arm while reading from the Bible. We broke up six months later when I found out her name wasn't really Martha and she murdered transients that she picked up by the side of the road. Ahh, true love!

Jesus and ME!

I sat down with the Jesus. He was a pretty cool dude, except he had this awful habit of picking his toes with his teeth. When I questioned him about it, he simply said, "I turned water into wine, bitch! Now shadda yo mouth!"

Here is the interview:

Matt: Do you believe in yourself?
Jesus: That's certainly a question!
M: How about sex?
J: With you? No thanks!
M: Drugs?
J: Wednesdays and Fridays.
M: Rock N' Roll?
J: Yes please.
M: Are you religious?
J: The most religious thing I ever did involved a virgin named Mary.
M: That's blasphemy!
J: It was a blast-for-me too.
M: What about the government?
J: I have never spoken to George Bush about foreign affairs. I have, however, spoken to Jenna Bush about foreign affairs: but no matter what I say, she'll never take her top off.
M: How do you feel about Christianity?
J: I would never join a club that would have me as a member.
M: Judaism?
J: I could never get used to the beanies.
M: Muslims?
J: I don't want to say anything, they might open a can of Fatwa on me.
M: Hindu?
J: Hin-don't.
M: Thanks for your time.
J: Yeah, I'm alive forever, so it's more like you are wasting your time.
M: Right.
J: Seriously though...how much time did you spend on Youporn this week?
M: Thanks for the interview, J.
J: And the things you look up? "Palestinian Girls Go Jihad On Jewish Cocks?"
M: This conversation is over.
J: You should be ashamed of yourself!

Airplane Rant

In the air right now...

What is that old adage about flying? It's safer than driving? I personally don't care how statistically safe it is; as soon as my body tilts in a 45 degree angle and I realize there is nothing but forward momentum preventing me from becoming a messy stain on the ground, my stomach drops about 30,000 feet and I begin to cry like a little girl.

I have, in the past, grabbed a hold of my next-seat-neighbor's hand and yelped a magnificent yelp. With the exception of one instance when my vivaciously beautiful neighbor actually smiled and asked me to keep holding on, the hand grabbing exercise has been a fruitless and embarrassing endeavor.

OK, so the guy ahead of me decided that he was going to lean back and now my computer is literally inside my anus. While this might be a fun experience for a small percentage of people, I would actually call it "slightly uncomfortable".

I hate flying so much that I need to have several shots of various liquors before boarding the plane. The fact that I need several shots of various liquors before doing anything probably has no bearing whatsoever, but there is that slight possibility that I am a hardcore alcoholic, or an "alco-awesome" as I like to call it.

To start the last paragraph's thought again...I hate flying, but love traveling. If I could only construct some sort of Star Trek-esque beam to transport me from place to place! Oh the fun I'd have: running with the bulls in Spain, standing at the top of Mt Everest, hanging with a bunch of Tech Nerds in the Bay area. It would be a dream come true: a very, very sad dream. The kind of dream that you try not to remember when you wake up, but the disturbingly crystal-clear images have engrained themselves into your brain, like a sex dream about the ugly girl in your high school science class. Not that I've ever experienced that. Seriously though, who would have known that Rachel McLaughlin was so sexy, while all-the-time covered in warts?

So I literally mean RANT, when I say rant. The flight between Los Angeles and Las Vegas is about 50 minutes, and computer usage is limited to a paltry 20 minutes, which means I cannot put more than a passing thought into this feces-covered debacle of a blog post. Oh well, at least it's colorful!

Ridiculous One Night Stand

This is an absolutely true story.

I knew this girl...let's call her Jen. Jen was a beautiful, awkward and slightly neurotic girl who used to frequent this bar on the Lower East Side every Thursday.

She and some friends would hit up happy hour, and every week would run into the same guy; let's call him Mike. Mike was 20-something, handsome, suave, debonair, and an all-in-all hunk (surprisingly, not me). For years she was looking for a fantastic fantasy guy and this was pretty much him. Her search for Mr. Right had come to an end.

Each week she saw him, and each week she attempted to talk to him, but her nerves got the best of her. Finally, after about two months of hemming and hawing, she got up enough [liquid] courage to talk to Mark.

They spoke for hours; from the same town, enjoyed the same books, had the same sense of humor. Needless to say, she went back home with him.

His house was a the Manhattan version of a palatial mansion; a huge loft with brand new furniture, picturesque views and high ceilings. They made true, passionate love and it was special. Jen's dreams were finally coming true.

The next morning Mark woke Jen up with breakfast in bed. He kissed her on the forehead and said that she could take as long as she wanted to leave, but he had to go to work. She wrapped herself in his huge comforter and smiled a huge smile: PERFECTION!

Then, her stomach started grumbling; the international sign that she needed to go to the bathroom. I will spare you the specifics, but let's just say she went number two. Reaching over to flush the toilet, she noticed that...it wouldn't flush.

Frantically, she tried again and again. Over and over, she slammed on the lever...yet it did nothing.

What did she do? Ran into the kitchen and grabbed a plastic sandwich bag, ran back into the bathroom, reached into the toilet and removed the offending item.

Running back to the kitchen, she washed her hands. In a hurry to leave, she grabbed her stuff and left as quickly as possible.

As soon as the door to the apartment building closed behind her, she realized something:

She left the bag of poop on the kitchen counter.

She frenziedly ran to the door and began to grab the handle, shaking it back and forth, but there was no hope. She was late for work and there was nothing to do, so she left.

Meanwhile, he must have come home to a huge surprise. Obviously, he had a good time too, but coming home and finding a huge bag of poop on his kitchen counter must have given him a pause for thought.

She called him a few times and he never returned her phone call. Her fantasy man was fantastic, but a big ole bag o' poop got in the way of true love. Isn't that how it always is?

HAVING A BABY

I pondered recently about the implications of being in your mid/late 20s and the effect it has on your psyche. In my mind, you're stuck in a purgatory-like state of maturity. Am I responsible? Do I have a home life/career? At one point do I stop picking my nose in polite company?

These are indeed central questions in one's life. That and why can't scientists come up with an energy drink that doesn't taste like cough syrup?

I was having an IM chat recently with a friend of 12 years. That's nearly half my life, and our friendship has extended back to a time I kindly refer to as my "formative years". I consider him one of my closest, and perhaps only blond, friend.

He's a bit of a goofus. One bright Sunday morning we were searching for brunch and, noticing a storefront, he exclaimed "how about that cay-f?"

"What's a cay-f?"
"That cay-f over there."
He pointed to a sign, it read "cafe".

At another point in his life (he was perhaps 15), he got so remarkably high, that when I walked into his room, he was trying to swallow one of those little bottles of breath freshener.

"I'm so dirty! I need to clean myself! BREATH SMELL GOOD!!!"

He let the bottle go and I literally stuck my hands in the back of his throat and removed the offending object. Every yearbook signature from then on included the phrase "thanks for saving my life".

These are not two isolated incidents. If the guy was a musician, he would be called "Doofus Wainwright"

Anyway, back to my conversation. I barely see him anymore, but I have met his girlfriend and seen his apartment. I think he makes a modest income and it seems like he genuinely loves his lady. So, when he immed me "I've got something important to tell you", I assumed that he was telling me he was going to get married.

I was wrong:

"Matt, I've got something to tell you."
"..."
"We're having a baby"
"WOW"

He's having a baby. WOW! He's not getting married...which, I suppose at any other time in our history might be weird, but he's having a baby.

Of course, being a complete and utter narcissist, I brought it back to myself. He is the first of my close friends to actually have a baby (though many have gone down the marriage path) and I pondered about how that reflected upon me.

I thought about being 27. I thought about wanting to be alive to see my kid have kids. I thought about not wanting to have kids. I thought about Jessica Rabbit naked. I thought about how I could be a superhero, but I just don't look good in tights.

I'm certainly years away from being in a place in my life where I would be comfortable having an off-spring. I can't even imagine a little near-sighted Matt wondering around, being all neurotic with his train set and questioning the existence of a higher-power while eating his spaghetti ohs. Also, I would feel sorry for my kid if he ended up being as awful as I described him. There goes 18 years of Saturday nights.

But, I guess the biggest question is; when would I be ready? Certainly not fucking now, matey. Is it a maturity thing? Is it a career thing? Is it a commitment thing? Is it the fact that I REALLY ENJOY being completely irresponsible?

Probably all of the above. I mean, who wants a kid around when you can sit on your couch naked, drinking piss-poor vino, gently stroking a butter knife across your jugular while googling ex girlfriends?

Hmmm...that makes me sound creepy. Oh well!

i look forward to the time when i don't have to look forward to a time

I have been told I look like Tom Cruise too many times to count (I cannot, for the life of me, tell you why), but I have LITERALLY been mistaken for Tom Cruise twice.

First time:

2004, standing in an elevator at the School of Visual Arts in New York City. Visiting the guy who was editing my film, I hopped in a tiny, graffiti-filled, florescent lit elevator.

The only other occupant, a young African-American boy, is staring at me. I can feel him glaring out of the corner of his eye. I'm thinking this must be some sort of gay ritual, and I will have to politely tell him that, while flattered, I'm not into the anal sex with men. I turn around...

"OH! Oh my God! It is you!"
"What?"
"Aren't you Tom Cruise?"
"I'm 23"
"You're not? Oh man, did any ever tell you you look like..."
"Yes"

Next time, I'm in a Blockbuster in LA in 2007. The store clerk is staring at me. College student, I understand, but someone who works at a Blockbuster? Isn't that like a Doctor mistaking a kidney for a pair of testicles? This man should be a movie buff-type person. Oh well.

He stares and stares. Does he think I'm stealing something? No.

"Oh MAN! I thought you were Tom Cruise"
"I'm 26"
"Did anyone ever tell you you look like..."
"Yes"

Now, I am 20 years younger then Tom Cruise and something tells me that Mr. Cruise would not be a patron at a Blockbuster...but there you go.

One time at a bar, I walked past a drunk douchebag, and he tried to start shit with me. Stomping his foot in front of me, he said; "Excuse me...Mr. Tom Cruise!" the same way one would say "Hey there, you fucking huge piece of shit". Since when does getting compared with a world-famous movie star become an insult?

I guess that means I should appreciate the fact that people think I look like Tom Cruise; it's way better than being called Clark Kent (which I have about 1000 times) or Jason Schwartzman (that mistaken identity got me a free coffee once) Personally though, I'd rather look like Matty M.

8 Random Things That Happened To Me This Week

1) I found out that a friend has a friend that calls while he's having sex with his girlfriend, so my friend can listen in. AND my friend enjoys it. AND I need to wash my hands.
2) Connected to that, I used the phrase "tears are the best lubrication to brutal anal sex" in polite conversation.
3) I had my finger up my nose for well over 15 continuous minutes while lost in Westwood. I wasn't picking; so I'm not really sure what it was doing there. Perhaps I hoped it would morph into a compass, pointing the booger-filled direction home.
4) While showering, I had a fantasy of being the keyboard player of this band. My next fantasy was years and years of psychotherapy.
5) I lent my friend a Dr. Who DVD. When he told me how much he liked it, I became overcome with joyous excitement. My mind drifted into an idle reverie where every Saturday night was "Dr Who Night" and I sat around discussing the pros and cons of the new series with a group of erudite intellectuals. Then, I thought about it some more and decided that I should do some research on "getting a life".
6) Had dinner with some old college friends and postulated that the producers of "Man Of The House" convinced Tommy Lee Jones he was starring in a taut thriller about a desolate Texas Town, then just shot another movie during his lunch breaks.
7) I found out that the plural of Chad is Chad (not chads). It reminds me of the time that I found out momentarily means both "for a moment" and "in a moment". *Don't want to think about anything that reminds me of the 2000 election.*
8) Noel from Zappos just twittered me and said this blog made her day. Noel is my new favorite Zappos employee.

Text Message Hilarity

My friend (5'2, 110lbs, baby faced) gets the following text message yesterday:

ur sik lying thief son did not deliver our dope and stole r money r turn goodluck if he dosnt pay we will kill him ur next

The text message finished with a gang name and random signs. My friend googles the gang name and signs; finds out it's the top gang in LA.

She writes back to them, because she definitely wants to make sure that the person for whom that message was intended gets it:

I think you have the wrong number

The funny part is their response:

Oh yes. Wrong number. Our apologies.

They went straight from sticking a gat up her ass to a 19th century British butler. Only in LA...

Sometimes I Ramble (And Interview God)

I was at a party on Saturday for a 21 year old (but I didn't know that until I got there!). Invited by a 27 year old, I stood in the corner with my 32 year old friend talking to 27, 27, 23, 19 year olds. I definitely felt like (one of) the old dudes in the room. I certainly wasn't the oldest guy there, but the I got the old "I'm one of 4 people in this room who could grow a beard if I cared to" vibe.

Am I old? Am I old-ish? Old-like? I fucking don't know. When I was 25 I went to my film school to pitch some ideas to an agent; when I was sitting in a communal area waiting to be let in, I found myself in a conversation with a bunch of 21 year olds. Mumbling "old" they began to speak to me:

"How old are you?" she muttered. Black hipster with blue eyeshadow. Didn't quite make sense to me.
"25" I said.
"HOLY SHIT THAT'S OLD!" she exclaimed!
"You'll be there soon" I said.

Now that I'm 27, 25 doesn't seem that old, but 27 does. Actually when I was 25, 25 seemed old. So, I guess the question is, am I always going to feel old from here on out? I fucking remember the 80s! I'm old enough to have appreciated Vanilla Ice in a non-Ironic way. WTF!

What is old? I don't know. Isn't it comparative? There's really only one person who can answer that question: God.

So, I sat down with him and we had a nice long talk. I attempted to transcribe it, but God speaks too freaking fast that it was difficult to write down EVERYTHING he said. I think I got most of it:

Me: God! There you are.
God: First off, don't call me God. God was my father's name. Just called me " ".
Me: Ok, " ", here's my question: is 27 old?
He pauses. Pauses in such a way that he WANTS me to think that he is THINKING. He needs me to believe that there's something going on in that magnificent head of his. Shrugging for effect, he says:
God: Matt, Matt, Matt...27 is fucking old.
Me: Really?
God: Yeah.
Me: But you're like 1 billion years old.
God: But I'm God...you're just a dude. What, do you live like 80 years? 81 if you're lucky. Basically you're born old. There's just not enough time for everything...
Me: True.
God: Speaking of that, how much time did you spend googling "download free porn" today?
Me: Like maybe 5 hours.
God: Less porn googling, more living your life.
Me: How about "facebooking"? Is that an OK waste of time?
God: Wait, you're on Facebook? You didn't add me.
Me: Uhm, I don't think you're in my email contacts.
God: You're going down, Jewface.

It kinda goes on from there. God ended up saying "I can't believe you're writing this at 2:28 am when you have other perfectly interesting things to do", but there you go. After the interview God turned into a halibut and began to hit me with himself, proclaiming "I am not a fish"...it was a little strange and it seemed as if he might be enjoying slapping the crap out of me.

Lesson learned? Life is short. I remember when I was in 8th grade, my science teacher spoke of our time on earth:

"You think that we're here for a long time? Our life is as minuscule as an ant's fart in the Amazon". Yes, that insightful tidbit of knowledge has stuck with me for...15 years.

His name was Constantine Constance. There's a fucking name.

I guess everything is relative; including age.

How To Keep Your Editor Job/Your Editing Gig

I've been getting a lot of hits on this last piece, which was about how to GET hired. This is a post about how to act in order to KEEP the job.

I've hired a lot of editors one time and one time only; Hopefully this will help you hold on to your freelance gig and make our lives easier. You'd be surprised about how many editors make simple mistakes that prevent them from being hired a second time.

1) Tell the Truth: OK, you don't know how to export H.264 correctly. That's fine. You don't know photoshop well? Just tell me; definitely during the interview process. If you're concerned about not getting hired, say "I've got a friend who can help me" or "I'm great with everything else, but maybe you can put me in touch with someone who can give me a few pointers on Motion, because I don't know it".

I've had editors say "Yeah, I can export for web fine", and I end up with a file on a DVD that's 2 gigs. If you tell me the truth, I can put you in touch with someone who can answer your questions. However, if you tell me that you know something, and you obviously don't...then you won't get hired again.

2) READ THE SCRIPT!!!: My sweet lord. I can't tell you how many times I've gotten cuts with lines, shots or even scenes missing. Read the script as you're putting the assembly together, read it as you trim each shot, read it outloud if you have to, but don't MISS things.

3) Be Specific With What You Want From the Producers: If you need a detailed log of all the shots, then tell me. If you want me to get all the music, graphics, etc for you beforehand, let me know. If you tell me after I give you the footage, it's annoying, because as a producer, I want to hand you the tapes and let you go. Once we've shot, I don't want to hear from you again until you have a cut for me.

In addition to that, be flexible. Don't email me and say "I didn't get the graphic for Britney Spears, so I can't put that together", just go grab a Britney Spears graphic from the web. That sort of stuff takes a few minutes and will save hours of aggravation.

4) Re-Watch Your Cuts: I always get cuts with huge gaffes, missing graphics (the dreaded "graphics offline" box), inaudible lines, repeat shots, etc. It's not that hard to watch what you've cut one time before you show it to me. It's only a few minutes and saves you from looking retarded.

5) Ask Questions: OK, you read the script and you have the footage, but you don't understand something. Call me up and ask me a question...don't guess. "What's this B-roll for?" requires a 10 second answer, but giving me a cut without the B-roll will give me a headache for an hour.

6) Make Your Deadlines: If you tell me it will be done on Wednesday...have it done on Wednesday. You need to tell me when you get the footage that it's going to take longer: Nothing says unprofessional like "I thought I could get this done, but I can't for another few days". I find that a lot of people overestimate to impress producers. If you need an extra day, just say so.

7) I Know, You're a Picture Editor, but Seriously, Just Sweeten the Sound a Little...: Doing some audio crossfades and equalizing in FCP or Avid takes a minimal amount of time and will make your cuts seem exponentially better. Don't hand me a cut with a bunch or drop outs or inaudible dialogue. You're just going to get a note saying "fix that" anyway.

8) Have FUN With The Cuts: Try something fun and unique. Stick in a funny graphic, add a cool sound effect, use an interesting video filter, put in a few interesting cutaways; have fun with it. Before you do it, ask "can I have fun with this?", most producers will say "yes, within reason", but...DO IT!

OK, I hope this helps! Good luck and keep those jobs...

Attempting to Write: A Brutal Confessional

I have now officially mastered the art of bating...er..."writing", and by writing, I mean actually not getting anything accomplished. Literally nothing. I'm supposed to shoot some content tomorrow and I have not begun to even think about writing it. I have, however;

1) Checked Twitter 1.5 million times
2) Spent at least an hour wondering if it's not too late to attempt a career as a rock star
3) Listened to the same song on repeat 40 times
4) Cried
5) Cried some more
6) Drank three beers

Well, if there's one thing I have learned it's that I'm a micro-blogging, pie-in-the-sky, rock n roll depressive alcoholic.

I guess that means I'm fit for a career in the entertainment industry after all.

Matthew: you ever get that "even if i was doing what i wanted to be doing, i still wouldn't want to be doing it" feeling?
alcn: yes
alcn: usually when i'm doing something
Matthew: ha
Matthew: like, i think if someone gave me 5 million dollars and said "go make a movie" i'd be like, GREAT! but a little dead inside
alcn: lol
alcn: i totally understand
Matthew: hah
Matthew: you know what i was feeling when i won that award at Tribeca?
Matthew : going up on stage, meeting deniro, etc
Matthew : "god, i hope this isn't the best moment of my life"
alcn: lol
alcn: oh matt
alcn: that really is hysterical


On a side note:

Did anyone realize that Marilyn Monroe was Jewish? Why isn't that little tidbit of information handed out at Sabbath?

I can't take the way he sings, but I love to hear him talk...

This literally happened to me at a pitch 2 years ago.

INT. OFFICE - DAY
A small, messy office that belongs to:

DAVID (25), who thinks it's the biggest office anyone has ever had. Tired eyes and highly distracted demeanor are his two biggest attributes...sits at his desk, staring at:

MATT (25), quiet, unassuming, yet powerfully intense.

This moment is clearly a MEXICAN STANDOFF. They stare at each other in silence.

MATT
I just think it's been done before, I mean, that
other show you produced was exactly the same.

He's not listening or looking directly at Matt.

DAVID
Mmmhmm...

MATT
I mean, we could make it work, I guess, I'm just
concerned that...

DAVID
I was thinking of making it more inviting. What do you
think I should do?

MATT
What?

DAVID
My office.

MATT
I don't know. Maybe move your desk around so you can face
people while...

David starts to TEXT MESSAGE on his cell phone.

MATT (CONT'D)
...you talk to them. Anyways...

DAVID
Hold on.

He LAUGHS.

MATT
I was just saying, I'm not sure if we should go in that direction,
I think if we avoid cliches and really try to make something
dynamic, it will set the show apart from every other similar one out there.

DAVID
Yes, I see what you're saying.

No he doesn't.

DAVID (CONT'D)
I have a question for you.

MATT
Yes?

DAVID
I had this guy make me a flash file and I want to know
what the quickest way to import...

He interrupts himself.

DAVID (CONT'D)
Do you think if someone's last name is Brown, he's black?

MATT
Huh?

He looks at David.

MATT (CONT'D)
No, I mean, I have a friend with the last name Brown
and he's not black.

David looks DOWN and stops talking.

For...
A...
Long...
Time...

DAVID
What?

MATT
I said, I have a friend with the last name Brown
and he's not black.

DAVID
Good.

Matt really has no idea what's going on.

DAVID (CONT'D)
So you think beanbags is the way to go?

MATT
It could be nice.

DAVID
How do I record sound onto flash?

MATT
I really don't know, I've never worked in flash.

David looks UPSET.

DAVID
You've never worked in flash? You're an idiot, Matt.

MATT
What?

DAVID
I am joking.

MATT
OK, because I was wondering.

He STARTS TEXTING AGAIN.

MATT (CONT'D)
I think you could probably record the sounds on a camera and
import them on to your computer through fire-wire.

DAVID
I don't want to go that far.

MATT
Well, I guess you could record on garage band and use the
computer's internal microphone.

DAVID
I want to do more then that.

MATT
Well, I don't know then.

DAVID
What was the first one again?

MATT
Recording the sounds on a camera and...

DAVID
You direct music videos right?

MATT
Yes.

DAVID
Do you want to direct a music video for my band?

MATT
You have a band?

He SMILES and shakes his head, as if saying 'DUH'.

DAVID
No.

MATT
But you want me to direct a music video for your band.

DAVID
You don't understand. I wrote some lyrics.

He pulls a CRUMPLED, MESSY piece of paper off his wall.

UNREADABLE SCRIBBLE is strewn across the page.

DAVID (CONT'D)
How long do you think it would take to make a
music video for that?

MATT
Is this a song?

DAVID
It's about a fat guy. He likes to eat. Do you think we can
shoot it this weekend?

MATT
You mean tomorrow?

DAVID
Yes.

MATT
Well, I mean, you could probably hire a musician to
write music to the lyrics.

DAVID
Oh, I don't want to use those lyrics. How fast could
we get this done?

MATT
I mean, a musician could write a song in like a
few hours, probably.

DAVID
Do you think we could make the music video
without a song?

MATT
I mean, I think you need a song to make a music video.
But, I guess if you just want to shoot a fat guy eating,
it could be done.

DAVID
No, didn't you hear what I said? I want to change the lyrics.

MATT
OK, well, I mean, if you wanted to shoot something
tomorrow, I guess...

DAVID
This is very important to me, I used to be fat.

MATT
Me too.

David SMILES.

DAVID
No you weren't.

MATT
Yes I was.

He's ANGRY LOOKING now.

DAVID
No, you weren't.

MATT
So listen, about the show, I really think that it could connect
to audiences if we had viewer feedback, you know, so people
could respond to it, feel like a part of the show.

DAVID
I'm not a fan.

MATT
Are you sure? I think it's a pretty good idea.

DAVID
Is there anyway we could do that, but not do that?
Do you know what I mean?

MATT
Maybe you could explain?

DAVID
I like the viewer feedback part.

MATT
OK...

DAVID
I just, you know, we don't have to get it right the first time.

MATT
Sure, OK.

DAVID
I think you're on to something.

MATT
So should I continue writing it with the viewer feedback in mind?

DAVID
We're talking creative now, I think the important thing is to
talk practical. We can worry about the creative stuff later.

MATT
But you told me last time you wanted the script tomorrow.
This is why we're meeting.

David stares ahead BLANKLY.

He GETS a TEXT and shows it to Matt.

DAVID
See this?

The TEXT SAYS 'LOVE TO HELP, BUT WE'RE BEING ACQUIRED BY VIACOM'.

MATT
OK.

DAVID
They're being acquired by Viacom. My boss is trying to work with them.

MATT
Sounds good.

DAVID
OK, so I have to go. I think that ironed everything out. Looking
forward to working with you.

MATT
OK.

DAVID
I really want to do this video.

MATT
Well, I mean, we could shoot it this weekend.
I know some musicians if you want me to contact them...

DAVID
No musicians. No music. Just a music video.

MATT
Ok.

DAVID
I need to go.

He walks out of his own office, leaving Matt ALONE and CONFUSED.


Despite this grim portent, I ended up working with this guy for over a year. Oh, it was a grim portent, indeed, but it sure was creative fodder. Or was it creative fertilizer? Either way, I smelled a lot of poop.

Editors Reels

NOTE: This piece has gotten a lot of hits, so I did a follow up. Click here to see "How To Keep Your Job Once You've Gotten It"...

10 tips for when you're putting together an editing reel and applying for editing jobs.

PREFACE: I've been looking at editors reels for...geez, like 5 years now. I've probably hired about 20 editors in my time, and seen like 300 reels. I immediately know within five seconds if I want to contact the editor, or throw the tape in the bin.

1) Choose your music wisely: I know what an iLife loop sounds like, please don't put it on your reel. I have literally gotten reels with MIDI files for music. Really? Seriously? You're going to go the cheap route? It's not like the copyright police are going to track you down; put a freakin' good song on there. You shouldn't even have that much music anyway...it's a reel to show you can CUT, not a reel to see that what you edit was shot well (see below)
2) Put a scene on there: Give me a few cut together shots. Sure, all those fancy, fast-paced shots of guns being drawn, cars flying by, clouds moving in fast motion, etc, are nice...but this is not a DP reel...show me HOW you create a story. I need to see something that proves you can put together a film/show/documentary. I'm not going to hire you based on your camera guy's talents.
3) If your graphics aren't professional quality...don't spend a lot of time on them: I have seen a lot of reels where there are some "that graphic would look OK in 2000" sort of graphics that are put at the front, or have a lot of time dedicated to them. It's alright if you're not the best graphic person in the world, sure, stick a few shots in there, but don't belabor it; get in and get out. Be honest with yourself; if it wouldn't pass muster on TV or music videos, it's probably not that good.
4) Have 1 Reel for the project you're applying for: OK, you've seen an ad for a Reality Show editor. SEND ME A LINK TO YOUR DOCUMENTARY/REALITY stuff. Don't send me a link to your website with 10 different reels on it. I'm not going to spend the time wading through your videos to find it, I'm going to get bored and move on, because I have 100 emails in my inbox from editors.
5) Check your Grammar: This may sound stupid, but seriously, I get emails with "your" instead of "you're" or no capitalization, or sentences like this: " I graduated from XXX and have much experience editing". "Much experience editing"? Read it OUTLOUD before you send it.
6) You're an editor, not a writer/director: OK, I know, you went to film school, you directed that digital short that played some film festivals, whatever...I'm not (neither is anyone else I know) hiring you if your resume says "writer/director/editor". Simple as that. I'm not looking for someone who wants to direct; that's our job. I want an editor. Similarly, don't tell me that you graduated from "Film School for Writing/Directing" or whatever.
7) It's OK if you are a little older, but don't stick the stuff from 1995 on your reel: I don't mind if you're 42, but I want to see that you can edit like it's 2008, not 1998. I'd rather not see that E! special you edited on "Liar, Liar".
8) Read the Job Posting and Say something about it in your Email: If my job posting says "we're doing a web series about robots", respond saying "It would be my dream to do this, I LOVE Robots!"...even if you don't...it makes me feel like you care about the project. It comes down to the "talents", but I will spend more time looking at your reel if you seem like you fit in with the project.
9) KEEP IT SHORT: If you're an editor...you should be able to EDIT. That means *focus*...I'm not interested in 10 second title cards with your name and "editor" underneath. Get in, show me what you can do, and get out. Give me your number and email at the end and that's IT! Watch your reel and if you have 45 seconds of skateboarders flipping around in circles, cut it down. Sure it looks cool, but again, 15 seconds of it tells me if you can edit or not. We all have short attention spans.
10) Don't use YouTube or MySpace: This might change in the next year or so...but the resolution on youtube and myspace videos are really poor. Try Blip.TV, or better yet, just upload a damn H.264 on a website and send me a link. You're an editor, right? You should know how to export a nice video.

Hope this helps! Good luck on getting the gig :)

it's like he drew my life

from here:

"Oh dear," says God, "I hadn't thought of that" and promply vanishes in a puff of logic.

There's something about designing robots that takes me right back to the mid-1980's, watching either this:

or this:

Yes, it is strange that I'm in the process of designing a robot for one of my jobs (got too many to count these days), but it's in my contract. Literally, as soon as I get to an office, I say "hey, you know what would be WONDERFUL? If you had a show about a robot!"

Invariably, the potential employer says "leave now and never return". If they don't, then I know it's a place I should consider employment. Currently, I'm putting together a big ole robot for a major online retailer...maybe it's too many years of Douglas Adams, or perhaps too many years of Dr. Who (in episodes written by Douglas Adams), but, facing the half-built robot, I consistently have the same idle reverie...

Matt: Hey, Robot, what's up?
Robot: I AM PROGRAMMED TO BE SURROUNDED BY AWESOME. MY LAMENESS DETECTOR INDICATES I SHOULD LEAVE YOU RIGHT NOW.
I fiddle with wires.
Robot: WOW, I'M GLAD TO BE NEAR YOU, YOU JEWISH SEX GOD. WHAT'S UP FIRST? NIGHT ON THE TOWN TO FIND SOME FOXY TAIL, OR SHOULD I JUST SIT HERE AND ABSORB YOUR WISDOM?
Matt: Let's dance!
Robot: ENGAGE FUNKY CHIPS. *EVERYBODY WANG-CHUNG TONIGHT*
Matt: Engage Rock Lobster...
Robot: HERE COMES A BIKINI WHALE!
Matt: Hey Robot, let's be BFFs! I shall now program you to be exactly like me.
Robot: NO PLEASE, I VALUE MY SANITY. THE NEUROTICISM ALONE WILL MAKE ME IMPOTENT TO THE SEXY FEMBOTS.

And so on. I believe the fantasy usually leaves me in a fight with the robot where I tell it to divide zero and its' brain explodes.

Why do Super-Toys Last All Summer Long?

If there's one thing I can learn from a robot it's how to destroy all that oppose me. If there are two things I can learn from a robot it's:

1) How to destroy all those that oppose me (duh)
2) How to be an emotionless drone.

Oh well. As Marvin said, "Life: loathe it or ignore it, you can't like it."

My top ten thoughts during the day

1) I wonder what that tastes like?
2) I wish I didn't taste that.
3) I wonder what the weirdest porn I can find is?
4) That's going to keep me awake.
5) Does moral absolutism exist, or are we dealing with subjective relativism?
6) Huh?
7) I wonder what she looks like naked.
8) She's kinda overweight in my imagination.
9) Writing a list of things on my mind is a good idea.
10) Wow, it's really not.

Does Moral Absolutism Exist?

wow. I was all set up to write a blog here, but then work got in the way. Please kill me.

First Law Of Games (music nazis make me want to vomit)

I titled this entry after possibly the most obscure mp3 I have in my collection. If you have it, and enjoy it, I would love to father your babies, or, on the flip side, carry your babies (but not in a gay way).

I guess you can't judge a person based on their musical tastes. I mean, you definitely can, but then you're that annoying chick my freshman year of college who engaged me in this wonderful discourse:

"Do you like Weezer?"
"Not really."
"What's your favorite song of theirs?"
"As I said, I don't really like them that much"
"Tell me"
"OK, I guess I like 'The Sweater Song', that's pretty good"
"YOU FUCKING POSER! It's people like you that destroy music and put crappy videos on MTV"
"I said I don't like Weezer"
"Whatever, go listen to Limp Bizkit, asshole"

That's pretty much verbatim, and yes, I'm sure I'm misspelling "Bizkit", but I'm not sure if that's the band's preferred spelling or complete bollocks. Honestly, probably both.

That was the same girl who criticized my friend for being into the "Dave Matthews Band". Music Nazis make me want to vomit.

Actually, taking that a step further, I guess I make myself vomit. I love weird, obscure music (weird 80's stuff, out there rock 'n roll, 'etc'), but if I meet someone who's into the same stuff, I generally have one of three reactions:

1) I'm in LOVE! (if it's a beautiful woman)
2) This person doesn't know as much about the band as I do. What a poser! (if it's a dude)
3) I'm confused about your sexuality (if it's a tranny)

Why do 20 somethings judge people based on their musical tastes? I'm not sure. I guess when you're searching for a concrete identity, you latch on to something that will define you concretely; glasses-wearing Weezer nerd, baggy pantsed hip-hopster, sullen-faced emo puss. "Hey, I'm not sure who I am, but this MP3 I just downloaded will tell the WORLD that I'm awesome!"

When you consider that we're here for what...? Like 75-85 years, and we waste our time judging and being judged based on our clothes, hair and music...what's the point? Personally I've got the "red wine philosophy" on life: drink it until everything starts sounding good.

Speaking of that, there's a 6 dollar bottle of vino calling my name.

But watch out, youngins! Too much wine and you might just find yourself being into these guys and that would be BADD.