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.

Happy Birthday 2 Mes.

Reading over my 25th birthday entry from (gasp!) 5 years ago, one think that 25 is some big mysterious birthday signifying an imminent death/the end of everything as we know it. I'm not one to be hyperbolic, so I'll just write a little note to my 25 year old self: 25 isn't old, nor is turning that age some sort of indication of the "beginning of the end".

No, kind readers, 25 isn't old...30 is. So despicably old that I'll be surprised if I don't put a bullet in my head at some point during the remaining 18 minutes of my 20s.

I guess a 35 year old me would say that I was being hyperbolic again, and I probably am. I mean, is 30 old? It was to a 25 year old me! It was to a 29 year old me!

I remember a time when I visited NYU at the ancient age of 25 to meet with an agent. A few other kids were sitting around and I joined in their conversation. Frightened that someone was sitting with them who might actually be able to grow a beard, they cautiously asked me how old I was. When I told them, they were gobsmacked - legitimately jaw-dropped.

"Holy shit! 25 - that's sooooo old!", said the 21 year old girl who is now 25.
"I thought 25 was old until I turned 25", said the 25 year old me who is now only minutes away from being 30.

Time has a funny way of making you feel both incredibly young and incredibly old, depending who you are comparing yourself to at the time. I guess it's all a matter of perspective - with the exception of my grandmother who died at 98. She was really, really old. (But I love(d) her!)

Now I look at people who were born in 1990 and am completely blown away that they are 20. Did people feel that way about me after finding out that I was born in 1980? I mean, 1990 - Tiny Toon Adventures, HammerTime!, fades. Those kids have never experienced that particular cultural Renaissance. They grew up in a time during which they can now look fondly back to their youth and say "boy, I loved N'Sync when I was but 7!". Of course, if they talked like that, they'd probably be talking to themselves because who the hell would hang around someone who says "when I was but"?

Anyway, my life seems to be going pretty well right now - with the sole exception of my lack of blogging prowess - so I'm not going to complain too much. I hope my 30s will be at least 33% more productive then my 20s.

So goodbye 20s - the last decade I had bad acne, pursued a higher education (though that might change one day), and enjoyed a chocolate martini. Choco-tinis, by the way...not as delicious coming up as they were going down - let's just leave it at that.

I guess, in the end, the end of a decade makes you put some things to rest, and knowing me and my countless neuroses and oddly people turning-off habits, maybe that's a good thing.

As the year ends, think about how it's not worth thinking about too much.

Cake, the Velvet Underground and what that means to today's youth.

In yet another one of those ubiquitous hipsteriffic iPod commercials, I noticed a song I had heard before...except that I hadn't heard it before. That makes no sense, but then neither does the popularity of neon v-necks. Totally fucking baffling.

Anyway, allow me to explain:

Tell me if you can sense a similarity between this song, Short Skirt Long Jacket by Cake. (especially around the :28 second mark):



...and this song, Sweet Jane by the Velvet Underground (starting at the :16 second mark):



Now, I think Cake's a rad band, so they must have done this on purpose, right?

Either way, I really hate the "stupid kids not knowing what good music is" syndrome that these sorts of things foster. I'll give you two examples of what that means:

1) My Freshman Year of college, I was listening to David Bowie's The Man Who Sold The World. I asked my roommate if he knew the song and he said, and I QUOTE: "yeah, it's a shitty cover of a shitty Nirvana song". I cried for three weeks after that.
2) 2003: I put on Iggy Pop's The Idiot, and a friend who was sitting in the same room as me said, and I QUOTE: "cool! Is that the new Strokes album?" I cried for three months after that.

I guess the lesson here is that I do a lot of crying. Read the damn URL, sucker.

WEIRD INTERNET PICTURES

Found some weird crap online over the past few months. I keep telling myself that I'm going to create an epically hilarious post showcasing said crap, but instead I'll just post said crap.

So here ya go, kind reader, and I do mean reader (singular). My blog has been emptier than the mind of someone who argues against the "Mosque" "at" ground zero.

Potentially Pornographic Greeting Card: I was looking for an ecard for someone's birthday, and I reached this page. What exactly is going on in the second picture on the bottom on the right, and should I report it to the police?

Tiga Twitter: This guy makes his money writing songs that "our" presumably in the English language, but based on his Twitter page, it looks like he's speaking huhglish.

I wager that Tyga wants to leave it all in the pass.

AOL is For Perverted Old People: I know it's funny that I even still have an AOL email address anymore (I'm actually from the year 1995), but this link to an article popped up in my inbox recently. That's quite the double entendre if I've ever heard one.

I had a bra worth "splurging on" once. It didn't feel like cuddling afterwards, called me a selfish lover and made me apologize for all of the crying during sex. It left without a word in the morning, the only communication a post-it note on my door that simply read "I'm never dating a Jew again".

Conversations with sleeping people

Sometimes sleeping people have insights into life that no waking person could ever have. I'm a firm believer that the subconscious is a lot more interesting and insightful than the conscious. At least, I'd rather hang at a dinner party with my subconscious...my conscious is too unbearably cute.

Either way, I had a conversation with a sleeping person, which I recorded on my computer as it happened, and here's what I heard:

Friend: You wrote a note about being fat. I thought you were going to go get pizza.
Me: What?
Friend: YOU SAID YOU WERE GOING TO GO GET PIZZA? WHAT'S SO FUNNY ABOUT THAT?
Me: It's not funny, I'm lactose intolerant.
Friend: You said you had a very serious slow-down disease.
Me: Slow down disease? Is that like being tired?
Friend: I thought you were going to work.

Read between the lines; think philosophically...it just might blow your mind.

Dear Overweight Woman with a Spiderweb Tattoo on your Shoulder and a Mermaid Body Tattoo on your Upper Thigh Wearing Revealing Clothing,

Dear Overweight Woman Wearing Revealing Clothing with a Spiderweb Tattoo on your Shoulder and a Mermaid Body Tattoo on your Upper Thigh,

Really? At some point in your life, you said to yourself: hey, my stubby body can barely contain its 200lb frame, why not accentuate that sexiness by adorning myself with the most unnecessary and meaningless body art that one could possibly get? Surely no one will notice the goo-like stretching of my tattoos caused by a combination of flab rolls and flop sweat!

Just a question: what sort of message were you going for? I mean, I guess the spiderweb tattoo on your shoulder might implicate that if a man were to actually touch you, he would invariably be stuck to your skin owing to the thin layer of sugar which must coat your epidermis, but the mermaid tattoo on your upper thigh? Just not getting it.

And another thing: why must people who have tattoos wear clothing that shows off said tattoo no matter where the tattoo is and what the weight of the person is? A tattoo on your inner-thigh? Surely one must wear ripped short-shorts. A tattoo slightly above your private area? Surely one must wear low-cut jeans. A tattoo inside your vagina? Surely one must affix a micro-camera inside said vagina that broadcasts over the air in HD. Yes, I get it, you have a tattoo. So do 50% of people aged 18-29. It's not special anymore. In fact, if you have spiderweb and mermaid body tattoos, it was never special to begin with.

Anyway, Overweight Woman with a Spiderweb Tattoo on your Shoulder and a Mermaid Body Tattoo on your Upper Thigh Wearing Revealing Clothing, you've obviously got your life planned out and who am I to criticize? You've made your decisions, stuck to them, then made more decisions, and for some inexplicable reason, stuck to those as well.

I wish you the best, and give me a call when you get your Asian lettering or Dolphin jumping over the sea tattoo. I'll be there for you.

Father Knows Best-ish

Every father has an olde tyme-y thing that they like. Something that their children find endearing, yet beguilingly dated. For my dad, it was Old Time Radio. If you're curious to know what that is, simply imagine a time when every single person in America sat down in front of their radio to listen to ripping yarns spun about superheroes, gritty cops and middle aged ex-vaudevillians emphasizing their punch-lines with puns that were dated in 1940.

It's a pretty endearing genre of entertainment, and I specifically remember every weekend taking a car trip with Dad where you literally couldn't speak because he wanted to listen to a cassette tape of "The Shadow". Now this wasn't a "hey, shut up" type of "couldn't speak", it was a car full of 5 people (3 kids, a mom and a dad) sitting in abject silence; hanging on the every word of this completely antiquated, almost cringe-worthy form of entertainment...and you know what? I loved every minute of it.

How can you not look back fondly at things your dad loved? Does it really matter what it actually might have been? I mean, seriously, if my dad had a hankerin' for watching Hitler's famous Reichstag speech in December of 1941...I would fucking love Hitler's famous Reichstag speech in December of 1941. Why? Because my dad's...my dad. Admit it: there was something your father loved that other people might consider odd or dated, but you consider the jewel of your childhood.

I look back on this because I might potentially at some point maybe be a father in the extraordinarily distant future. I had a meta moment the other day while watching Channel 4's delicious 1990s sitcom "Father Ted" (brought to you by the same folks as "The IT Crowd"). There was a shoddy set which was shot crappy video, peppered with what one might call "dated 90s references". Yes, one day I will watch shows like that, shows like "The Young Ones", "Blackadder", and "Fawlty Towers" in front of my children. They will watch, mouth potentially agape, and realize that their daddy is into really old stuff that no one watches or even talks about anymore.

I mean, those aforementioned shows are dated in 2010...what are my love-children going to think in whatever year it will be when I actually have children (I'm bargaining on the 22nd century)? I hope they look at it with the same reverence that I looked at my Dad's Olde Time Radio. I'll be their dad, after all.

Watch S03E01 Are You Right There, Father Ted? in Comedy  |  View More Free Videos Online at Veoh.com

I Write Like...

I have no idea how this site actually works or if it's even accurate in the slightest; but I'll take this assessment of my writing style as either a huge compliment or a bitter confirmation of my suicidal tendencies. Either way, I'll be up cryin' tonight!

I write like
David Foster Wallace

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

Guy Who Urinated In Jars and Left Them In His Room

I had a roommate once who stored several huge bottles of urine in 2 gallon jugs of Poland Spring around his room.

He didn't think we knew, but we all did. One time I dared the boyfriend of another roommate to open a bottle and smell it. He did, and based on his reaction...it definitely was piss.

Yes, I do mean BOTTLES. The guy had no bed in his room, just a mattress, several indie rawk show fliers strewn around the floor, 4 empty bottles of Jack Daniels and about 30 huge bottles of piss. He was 27 and lived with 4 20-21 year olds.

We postulated that he perhaps needed it for some sort of drug test; but he was a bouncer, so that didn't really make sense.

Anyway, I never did find out much about him after I escaped the Kafka-esque nightmare that was that apartment. He recently added me on facebook and told me he lives in an "Artist's Loft" in Downtown LA, which is code for a commune filled with a group of broke-ass losers.

Here's the first page of a sketch I wrote about him in college:

INT. SMALL BEDROOM-NIGHT
Girl (23) sits, folding clothes. A Boy (24) stands, unpacking. Small room with a bunk bed.

GIRL
I'm so glad that you're normal, you know.
It's just so hard to find a good roommate.

BOY
Yeah. I totally understand.
I'm the good roommate. (note catchphrase)

He takes some money from her wallet without her noticing.

BOY (CONT’D)
Now let's turn off those lights and get some sleep.

He hops up on the bunk bed. Lights flick off.

Sounds of urination

Girl flips light on.

GIRL

What are you doing?

Boy is filling up a water bottle with his own urine.

BOY
Nothing. I'm certainly not filling up this
2 liter bottle with my own waste.
Now flip off that light, I need to get some sleep.

She flicks the light off.

Masturbation sounds.

BOY (CONT’D)
That’s right, bitch, suck it.

Girl flips light on again.

Boy throws copy of JUGS up in the air.

GIRL
What the hell is going on up there? Are you masturbating?

BOY
No. I'm just slapping my cheeks together.

He turns light off.

Girl SCREAMS!

Lights flipped on. He's mounting her.

GIRL
Now you're having sex with me!

BOY
No I'm not! What the hell's your problem?
I'm the good roommate.

Ahhh...Memories...the thing the brain does to fool us into believing we've accomplished something and done interesting things in our lives.

Airports

In my profession I end up sitting around a lot of airports. I know what you're thinking; "you have a profession?". Well, yes kind reader: sobbing uncontrollably while drinking my tears in order to taste pain is a profession. Shows you what you know.

Anyhoo, I travel a lot and I think nothing tells you more about a city than the book selection at its airport Hudson News.

For example, I'm sitting in San Jose airport right now (sobbing uncontrollably, of course: a dude's gotta make a living!), and after drinking my weight in whiskey-chased tears I strutted over to the local Airport Bookseller. What books do I find? Timothy Ferriss' 4 Hour Workweek, Dave Logan, John King, and Halee Fischer-Wright's Tribal Leadership, and various other "how and why people are successful and how to use that information to make shit-tons of money" books. That selection both underscores and reenforces the notion that the Bay Area is the Progressive, Thinking Professional Fun-Guy I WANT FUCKING MONEY capital of the world. Not a bad place to be (at least if you're my brother).

As a contrast, I usually fly out of Los Angeles and I think the book selection at that airport is pretty telling; adorning the wooden shelves are such pulitzer-winning masterpieces as Mommywood by Tori Spelling, the ingeniously titled Beckham by David Beckham and Angelina Jolie's: Notes From My Travels by...Angelina Jolie, which begs the question: how many notes of Angelina Jolie's can you read without having a complete existential breakdown?  These books solidify LA as the HOLY FUCKING SHIT WE'RE FULL OF HOLY FUCKING SHIT capital of the world. A terrible place to be (but only if you're me).

 

Next time you fly somewhere, check out what books are prominently displayed at the airport bookseller. It'll tell you more about local culture than any guidebook. That, or I'm full of it.


Now as a treat, listen to my favorite Beach Boy track off the oddly weird 1977 craptacular masterpiece Love You: DING DANG. 





It has nothing to do with my post, but then again, neither does my post. If you understand that you're a better man than I, sir.

WARGASM!

Today my friend Jake and I were discussing the relative merits of terrestrial radio. I asserted that with the exception of NPR and Pandora (which I doubt actually counts as radio), there is nothing on the airwaves worth listening to.

Jake said that his local college station played songs that were both good and unheard. Doubting him, I demanded evidence. He immediately emailed me this song, which for better or worse, pretty much makes me believe his radio-positive message. In any conceivable world, would I have ever heard this song? Not so much. Is this odd, borderline out-of-tune song worth the continuing the frankly antiquated concept of a radio station? Probably.

The band is called "Dynasty" and the song is called "Wargasm"...so you know it's good. Recorded in 2003, I can only assume it's about the benefits of copulation as opposed to invading Iraq. I'll go for that.

From it's Eno-ish middle eight breakdown to it's slightly punkish off key angsty Erase Errata singing, Wargasm has my vote. 

CLICK HERE TO LISTEN.

Buy the album here!

Why I quit Facebook and Why I'll Probably Return

Today is a very special day for me. No...I didn't rape and murder a transient; it's the one month anniversary of being Facebook Free.

At the beginning of May, I noticed that I was spending a good 23.9 hours a day on Facebook (due to some sort of secret privacy setting, my dreams contained Facebook ads on the right-hand side). 

I thought I was due for a Facebook Break; some time for "myself". No longer would I be encased in the oppressive shackles of an all-too-ubiquitous social networking website; I needed to better myself...like, you know, read a book or talk to someone that wasn't just me in a mirror, sobbing uncontrollably. Yes; like "Watching Ellie" and Jesus, I went on a hiatus for "retooling".

Here are the top reasons I left Facebook:

1) Wasting Time: I can't tell you how many times I said to myself "let's get started on that work...right after I check the Facebook status of each and everyone I am randomly connected to on Facebook"...then got stuck for hours down ye olde "looking at pictures of people I have not yet and never shall meet" rabbit hole. Hey, that comedian is randomly friends with this other comedian I met once at a party who knows that girl who was friends with that guy I kinda didn't like in high school. CA-RAY-ZAY! Pics or it didn't happen.

2) Getting Invited To Things: I know you're supposed to "support your friends", but I live in Hollywood where "supporting your friends" doesn't mean "being by their side when they need you", it means "showing up to every stand-up comedy performance and checking out every band at that 20 seat venue". I would literally get about 10 "event invitations" a day and I was running out of excuses as for why I couldn't make any of them (there's really only so many times you can use "sorry! I was crying profusely while looking at pictures of sumer camp from 1996" as a viable excuse). If you are friends with me, I most likely consider you to be the talented sort, but it's occasionally hard...especially considering that LA is a city full of 9.8 million people who play instruments and attempt to say potentially funny things. Not everyone can be talented. In fact, I'd say it's a good 1 in 10,000.

If, as the artist, you don't find the 10 other performers performing that night "funny" or "talented in the slightest"...how on earth am I supposed to sit through them? I'm just one man, not some sort of shit-comedy watching Robot, programmed to suffer the world's most unhilarious comedy lineup with the "I should really be saying this to a therapist" opening act. Seriously though. Not you...you're funny.

3) Not Getting Invited To Things: Hey, you know what's worse than being invited to things? Not being invited to things. Sure, I don't mind missing out on the odd "boys night out" or "strip club-extravaganza", but when I see a picture of 5 people I consider close friends all getting beers together and writing comments like "I sure had a great time last night...without Matt!" on each others wall, it brings me straight back to middle school where my nickname was "Jewy Mcbignose-nofriends" which was quite the nom-de-plume. Seriously, they coulda just called me "loser"...but it was New York and everybody's gotta be fancy in the City of...larger than average fruit. 

Yes, Facebook is the great equalizer: it's the place where you find out if people you meet at parties like you, and the place where you find out your "good" friends...kinda don't like you...

Now...that isn't to say I won't sign back into Facebook sometime soon. In fact, I probably will. Maybe even by tomorrow.

Sure, I'm a turncoat hypocrite, but it's worth examining why:

1) I Still Waste Time: Yeah, it's kinda nice to think that I stopped going to a social networking website. I certainly possibly might have potentially bettered myself. I spent less time on Facebook, but really...Facebook is kinda like an Island surrounded by pornographic shark infested waters. Anytime you try to leave, there's a shit load of "youjizz.com"-type websites out there to engulf you in masturbatory distraction. Anytime I started typing "facebook.com" into my browser, I said "no, fuck Facebook, I'll just google something to learn about...you know...something about the world!". So a google search about "flotillas" will undoubtably lead me to an article including links to "other headlines" which will undoubtably lead me to a story about a knife-wielding porn star...which, of course, leads me to look at porn, which...kinda really distracts me just as much if not more than Facebook does. Damn you, Internets.

2) I Kinda Miss Getting Invited To Things: Yeah, Facebook invites me to shit like "CRAZY WACKY STAND UP FUNNY TIMES!", but it also invites me to shit like "My Birthday Party" and "Anything involving friends from the age of 18-49". The days of email invitations are, basically over. Evite? A ridiculous dinosaur-like fossil, frozen in useless time, a joke of museum-esque proportions. So yeah, if like...I don't know, I want to find out if I'm invited to something, Facebook's gotta be the website. I don't like it, but I'm a lonely human being; thirsty for contact with the outside world, and if I'm not invited to your pool party; I might as well have functionally ceased to exist...kinda like Aerosmith.

3) I Still Don't Get Invited To Things: So yeah, avoiding Facebook doesn't prevent me from not getting invited to things. Just take a text message exchange on a Saturday at 8pm that I had recently with a friend who came in to LA from NYC:

Friend: Hey Matt, I'm In LA. Just wondering what you were up to tonight!

Me: Hey (friend!), being that it's 8pm, I have plans tonight, but would love to catch up another time. How's tomorrow?

Friend: No problem, I knew it was late notice and would have felt bad if you found out I was in LA and didn't contact you!

So yes, friends still do let friends feel like shit. I wish there was some sort of multi-million dollar ad campaign to combat this scourge, but there ain't. Somehow or another I will still find out that I wasn't invited to something and somehow or another there is still some uncoth malcontent intent on pointing it out. At least with Facebook, I didn't need to learn about it by watching you.

And it's true, I will be logging on to Facebook again soon, in part to keep up with my hobbledehoy acquaintances; but mostly because I've got some awesome pictures to upload to prove to these hobbledehoys that I actually somehow have friends...

...and isn't that what Facebook is all about? Proving you have friends?

Prove me wrong, kids. Prove me wrong.