I caved.
Yep. I know, but thanks for pointing out how crappy and generic it is.
My old "web journal" is below, in hopes that my cautionary tale will live on among internet historians, curious
passers-by and my legions of Malaysian fans.
May God have mercy on our souls.
6/27/2005
As they say on this Inter Net, "OK, WTF?"
Or, as I like to say, "OK, what the fuck?!?"
You know who you are. Don't go playing coy with me. Or Vance (for you Dukes of Hazzard fans...).
Over the past couple of weeks, I got a shitload of mopey-assed e-mails from friends and acquaintances, all to the effect
of "hey, man, haven't heard from you in a while--just let us know you're ok, ok?..."
Finally, I was burdened with so much guilt that my Gazelles couldn't support the weight any more. I blocked out
a bunch of time one summer Sunday's afternoon and wrote everyone back. I explained my dizzying highs, terrifying
lows, and penchant for ill-timed visits to gentlemen's clubs. I poured my heart out, and I offered to make things right
again.
You know what? None of you motherfuckers has written me back.
Seriously, what gives?
As for me, life is a hoot and a holler right now. Based on a few late-night voicemails, I learned that our short
film "I Am Drugs" won the Emerging Comics of New York award this year. Huzzah! I knew all along that I'd grow
to appreciate my misspent youth!
And I'm getting back on the comedy horse, doing standup around NYC. It feels good to be back, people, so hopefully
I'll be harassing you personally from a stage again some time soon.
Outside of that, I'm digging the shit out of life. So next time, if you haven't heard from me in a while, feel
free to pick up the phone. Or check out the "Schedule" link and see if I'm near you. And if it's a sunny Sunday
afternoon, look for me at the park down the street, because sending a bunch of unanswered e-mails is no way to spend a day...
I bid you all adieu. And of course, screw you people.
6/5/2005
Screw you people.
I still mean it. The more I think about things, the more I realize that I was so happy as a little dorky D&D
playin', math-lovin' middle child from a Masshole shoe town. But for some reason, I felt like I had to be cool, and
I started drinking, chasing the muff around and wearing hooded button-down flannel shirts.
God, grunge was ugly. But it made sense at the time.
I could have been a scientist, a jazz trombonist, or at least a 35th-level magic user. Instead, I stare at the
carbon copy credit card receipts from one too many strip club visits and think, "what was wrong with being a Mathlete?"
I ramble here, and you listen. God, you're even more pathetic than I am.
So where the fuck was I?
Oh yeah. I'm sitting here on a Sunday, after a great Saturday night, tearing it up in Brooklyn with my buddy and
fellow comic Tommy Amado. He's funny. He is as crazy as I am. And he's a Chowderhead. He also
likes tequila a bit too much, which is why I had beer for breakfast.
I'll be damned if I'm going to let "the dreads" ruin my Sunday.
"The dreads," you ask?
Just be glad you think kamikazes are "drinking." That's all I have to say.
You may notice that
www.mattpreskenis.com has a new look. No shit, Einstein. It's intentional. I'm done pandering. I'm done pretending that
some dude does my website for me. I hate fake cheese.
So there.
I'd include some sort of rousing text here, but you get the point.
Instead, I'm here listening to that faraway bell, echoing through the canyons, like the disappearing dreams of yesterday.
4/2/2005
Screw you people.
There, I got that off my chest. After three decades of really, really hating myself, I finally realized that I
can't be nearly as bad as I think I am. So there.
I don't know if it was the whole Catholic thing, having a mom who's a schoolteacher, or my uncanny attention to detail.
But whatever it was, I fucking hated myself for years.
Years, I'm telling you. I believed all the criticism and ignored all the compliments. For example, I can
tell you the first time someone made a crack about me balding. I was 12. And I was balding. But
you know what? That cocksucker had a uni-brow and I just let it go.
I honestly have no idea what this will mean...
Yeah, last night I stayed out about four hours later than I should have, horrified an entire bar with my antics
and drank from two beer bottles at the same time. But I'm not going to stew today and hate myself. I'm going
to laugh. Because that's fucking funny.
Now, now. You can hold off on the intervention. I'm not sitting here giving myself a green light
to drink like Hemmingway and party like 1985-era Motley Crue. It's bigger than that--I'm simply done hating myself.
For those of you who are thinking, "it's a long time coming," thank you for your patience. The rest
of you were probably part of the problem. That or we've never met.
Enough out of me. Niki and I are going to the Red Sox game tomorrow. It's in the Bronx against some
team that hasn't won a World Series this century, so we'll see where it goes. Massholes of the world,
I'll be representing you all.
Adios amigos.
3/25/2005
Folks, after an improbably long time living life like a blindfolded chimpanzee driving down the highway in a rocket car
with a flat tire, I just may be getting my shit together.
Go figure.
Oh, I'm sure I'll keep getting myself into all kinds of misadventures, and I'm sure there will be many more social events
where I'll add my own brand of "MJP je ne sais quoi," but at the same time, I'll be a lot more relaxed and hate myself
a lot less while I horrify polite society...
That's a positive step, right?
And remember, you heard it here first, mostly because almost everyone I know seems to have stopped replying to my
e-mails.
Anyone need a slightly used rocket car?
3/20/2005
It's been so long since I updated this quasi-blog (I know, it's not really a blog, per se, because it's not searchable,
it's unorganized, and it's not good) that I don't even know where to begin.
I'm embarrassed, I guess.
This is kind of like when you run into that friend on the street and you're like, "oh my God, I'm so sorry I haven't
called you in a month and a half!"
Meanwhile, all you can think is, "holy crap, I have been having such a good time I forgot about this guy altogether.
What's his name again?"
With the new job and all, I've been busy. So sue me. And I've been having one hell of a good time outside
of work, too. Just ask my buddy Kyle who joined me for what began as a night at the fights and ended in near-annihilation.
Point is, the last thing on my mind has been, "I wonder what the random people who find my site think of my blog silence?"
You know, to be honest, it's not all my fault.
I see all the random people who tramp through this site and don't even say "hello."
My crappy web hosting company gives me enough web traffic data to know that my site is the cyber equivalent of that Starbucks
on 86th and Lexington with the liberal restroom policy where people sneak in the side door by the unlocked men's room, take
a massive dump, and then don't even have the common decency to leave without waving.
I should know, I do it, too.
But I'll make you a deal, folks. Send me a note--even a short one. I'll send you one back. Then we'll
all start corresponding, like real civilized folks. And eventually, I'll care enough again to update this quasi-blog
part of my website, rather than spending half a day fiddling and diddling with the font on the homepage.
Yours in Virtual Friendship,
Matt
2/2/2005
This is just a quick note to congratulate any "wise Googlers" who find the site. Apparently people looking for
Matt Preskenis actually get me some of the time
Good for you.
Whenever I search for myself in search engines (admit it--you do it too!), I end up finding links to some up-and-coming
superstar 6th grader in Bedford, New Hampshire who is also named "Matt Preskenis" and apparently has a better press agent
than I'll ever have...
Seriously, I'm impressed. If you found me by searching for any permutation of "Matt Preskenis," you definitely
didn't do it in January, when my web people tell me the top search terms that led to my site included the following:
* download stand up comedy
* potbelly pigs
* strongest superhero
* When Life hands you a lemon make lemonade
* real snakes
* Carnival freaks lobster man
* double dutch tournaments
I note that "plywood speedboats" is conspicuously absent from this month's list, but I'm happy to hear that anyone searching
for one of Grandma's Maxims is directed right to my site, where they share bandwidth with fans of superheroes and people looking
for Lobsterboy info. Grady Stiles, Jr., you are not forgotten.
Anywhoo, I don't have too much else to say today, other than to apologize for the rambling unfunniness of the post from
the other day. I'll make it up to you all, I swear.
At the very least, I can promise that February's going to be an interesting month. After one day, someone already
found my site by searching for "superhero fucking."
I can now die happy and/or live in fear of my fellow man.
01/29/2005
First of all, a happy belated New Year to you all. Mine has been awesome. Seriously, awesome. 2004
sucked and 2005 stepped right in and promptly blindsided the outgoing '04 with a rusty garden hoe before it could even tie
its shoes. I hope all of you have also experienced a 2005 that marched right through your screen door with a unique
blend of get-to-it-ness and country justice, as well.
The only down side to the entire year was the unexpectedly miserable reception I got from the crowd last night in my
first gig at this hoppin' room in Brooklyn. They laughed when I didn't expect it and were horrified by stories that
usually end up with some old lady in the audience offering to adopt me, so I know the stories aren't that bad.
Hell, those jokes killed in Clute, TX, and that audience brought brownies to the show. I can only assume that it was
opposite day.
Well, that's settled.
On a somewhat somber note, it is with this posting that I must forfeit any and all claims to comic "street cred" I may
have had at the end of last year, as I have not only taken a full time day job, but I openly admit to being excited by
the position.
I won't get into the details on these pages (you don't come to this site to hear obvious-but-occasionally-funny office
jokes--you've got Dilbert for that, friend!), but let me say that it feels good to be back at work. And, for
the benefit of all of my friends in the 'burbs who are rapidly approaching the 2.5 kid mark, I shall admit that "living
the dream" without a paycheck or a sense of purpose was ultimately going to make me crazy, dead or both. And crazydead
is no way to go.
"Oh, no, Matt! We had so enjoyed coming here and reading your rambling commentaries about the volatile ups and
downs of maintaining your sanity, your health and your relationships through a longer-than-expected unemployment!" you may
say.
"I couldn't help but notice that none of you ever called," I would note.
And you would be pretty quiet at that point.
After what I've learned from unemployment, I realize that now is the time to extend the proverbial olive branch.
Hear ye, hear ye: It's OK to call me now. Go ahead, we can shoot the shit and when you talk about work you
don't have to feel awkward. Complain about your mail room. It's OK, but do remember that the Post Office
sets a really, really low bar...
What's that, you took a vacation? Now that I'm actually employed and no longer depending on New York State for
my income each week, maybe I'll do that, too! What a treat--we can compare ideas of places to go, rather than you mentioning
"oh, just some little place somewhere...", at which point I have to hack into your Expedia account and figure out
where you went, because I've got nothing better to do.
Oh yeah, I hope you had a good time in Vegas.
As an aside, to the one or two people who decided that their Gatsby-esque self-invention might be jeopardized by putting
me in touch with their friends because they were worried about their reputation...
I hate to break it to you, but those guys are going to find out about the Asian whores one of these days, anyway.
Now if I meet them, I'll be sure to tell them.
Anywhoo, sorry to get suddenly bitter there. I know, I've got issues. So sue me.
"Wow, Matt, unemployment was quite a ride from May 14th, huh?" you may opine.
You said a mouthful.
At the end of the day, I learned that, by Month Six, unemployment really, really blows. There are only so
many creative ways to say, "I'm between projects right now," "actually, now's not the best market for my skills," or
"for the record, I came across that show with Star Jones by accident." People see through it, but they still invite
you to a lot of things that cost money, then get all offended when you don't show up. Or they act all amazed that, wiht
all your free time, you still don't speak Arabic, Finnish or Farsi yet. I can't roll my r's, so it was never going
to happen anyway, but you'd be amazed how much random shit you need to get done even when you've got nothing to do...
As I noted in an earlier post from back in the day, I'm going to write a book about all this. I am, this I swear!
Ostensibly, it'll be about unemployment, or maybe the weird social stigma of being unemployed, or maybe people who use words
like "ostensibly" when the phrase, "on the surface" would have worked nicely, as well. So I'll be shamelessly drafting
it here.
That's enough out of me for one day. This coming month, I intend to stay employed, add another year to my life,
and maybe box in one of those fights at my gym again. And who knows, maybe I'll update the site too...
Keep on Rokken with Dokken, folks.
12/30/2004
HELP!!!!
I know. I'm unemployed. It's the holidays. Nothing ever happens on Thursdays anyway. But that's
all slim consolation for what just happened in my life. I took three spur-of-the-moment pictures of our cat. Just
because. For no reason other than his sudden decision to chew furiously on my mobile phone.
Holy crap, I've become a Crazy Cat Person.
I know. They're digital photos. I could erase them now, and no one would be the wiser. But deep down
inside, I also know that I bear the Mark of Shame.
You've got to believe me. I didn't mean for this to happen. Seriously. I used to be a Wild Man.
Ask anyone who ever saw me get kicked out of a wedding. I used to have a "dangerous" edge that would simultaneously
horrify, disgust and amuse the sorts of people who think "$4 pitcher night" is "partying." I used to live like a Poison
song--and early Poison, too. None of that "we're country heavy metal cowboys from Pennsylvania" shit. Now "Look
What the Cat Dragged In" has been replaced by the curled up kittycat napping on my desk.
I'll say it again, "HELP!"
In the spirit of the entry from the 9th, it may be time to saunter back to the supermarket for more beer.
Yours in increasing lameness,
Matt
[Editor's Note: You will note that there is a conspicuous lack of Holiday bullshit between the entry on the
9th and the entry today. I didn't even wish you a Happy Holidays. I figure that was understood. And I'm
not going to bore you with wacky holiday stories. I know--your family's crazy, my family's crazy, they're all crazy.
We've all got an alcoholic uncle no one talks about, that crazy aunt who married the crazy rich guy who then had an "accident,"
and the cousin that everyone knows is gay but no one will admit it. They just hope he's happy at design school and that
his latest "friend" is a better influence on him. Yep, families are nuts. And they get even wackier on the holidays. We
get it. Anyway, whatever you celebrated, I hope it was significantly above average. And don't be afraid to hug
that uncle every once in a while, either.]
12/9/2004
4pm on a Thursday--a fine time to stroll to the fridge for a beer, I say!
The Horrified among you may recoil at my mid-afternoon tipple, but I've got this sinking suspicion that when I do find
a job again, I'll wish I had done this a lot more. It's a pity bars cost so much money, because that would REALLY be
good fun. Still, with no paycheck coming in, I'm relegated to sitting here staring out the window drinking cheap beer
from my fridge. Which isn't bad, don't get me wrong.
I have to say, I am fairly amazed at how well I've held up through unemployment. I'll be honest, at first,
I thought I was going to self-hate myself out of my own apartment and into the gutter. But I stuck it out, and somehow
I'm more well-adjusted, I am not panicking about my future, and I'm even more convinced that my old boss really was a micromanaging
cocksucker with a Napoleon complex. Note, however, that I now say that with little to no bitterness in my voice and
even less in my typing.
Some of you out there may be going through the same thing yourself right now. And some of you may be on the verge
of getting fired--particularly you, sir, the one reading this shit instead of proofreading your Power Point presentation for
the Big Meeting. To any of you out there who have that sinking suspicion that your days are numbered, you're probably
right. Go ahead and "expense" a strip club visit before they send you on your way. That'll show 'em!
Like naive twentysomethings in shit jobs, I console myself with the fact that I've "learned a lot." Some day, when
this phase is over, I'm going to write a book about it. Why not, right?
I would, of course, have a snappy title. Something like, "Surviving Unemployment--And Keeping Your Sanity."
Or hopefully something more pithy that jumps out at people. And all sorts of useful chapters. Holy crap, I can
imagine it right now, and it's awesome.
In the meantime, here's a teaser list full of advice I intend to charge $ 14.99 for in a few months!
- Find the wagon and climb on board: If you want to make this a temporary thing, quit drinking and
drugs for at least a few weeks--two or three days after getting fired. Don't get me wrong, the day you get called into
that unscheduled 5pm meeting on Friday afternoon and get the boot, you've instantly earned the right to go out, have
too many drinks, and complain to anyone who will listen about your plight. But go easy on the sauce there, buddy.
Being hungover and unemployed is MISERABLE, not to mention expensive.
- Find a hobby. This is your chance, man. Do something with your life! You've got tons
of spare time, and in the first month or so, potential employers are going to treat you like a leper anyway. Sounds
like Thai Kickboxing time!
- Grow a beard. Or a Fu Man Chu. Or lightning bolt sideburns. Anything that would raise
a few eyebrows in the Accounting Department is now fair game while you're unemployed. Of course, if you don't trim your
neck, you're just being lazy, which is also an option. What ever you do, just remember that goatees are always, without
exception, ridiculous.
[My apologies to the other 51% of the human populace who are unable to grow facial hair.
I'm not sure what to suggest to you, women of the world. Maybe it's time to get that boyfriend that no one would approve
of. Or start wearing leg warmers for no reason. I don't know. I'll figure it out by the time I'm on my book-signing
tour.]
- Expect your friends to get a little bit weird and a whole lot awkward around you. Why? Let
me put it this way: the healthy zebras don't have beers with the one with the broken leg. They just don't. No
matter how good at walking around and eating grass he was, that zebra is vulnerable, unsteady, and has already had one bad
thing happen to him. And it might be catching...
- Get to know your neighborhood--the one that's out when you were in work. Who knows? You may
also have an albino Hispanic guy who pushes an Italian Ice cart from domino game to domino game every afternoon.
- Expect to be unemployed at least 6 months. The universe does this to everyone. It's not just
you. If it helps, block out ten to twenty minutes a day to shake your fist at your diploma. I can assure you that
they won't give you a refund on your tuition...
Those are just a few gems that I may cobble into a half-assed book. Of course, there would be illustrations,
snappy captions and a more easy-on-the-eyes font in the final publication. But you get where I'm going with it.
And with that, I'm out of beer. I must bid you adieu, as the discount grocery store calls!
11/7/2004
Oh, hi. You're still here?
I have to say, I'm honestly surprised to get visitors these days. I've been a complete slacker in my "The Latest"
updates, I haven't updated my schedule in ages, and I've really cut back on my stand-up schedule, given how busy I've been
with our sketch show...
In short, I've really been sucking.
So thanks for swinging by anyway.
Now, I feel like I should take a moment to greet the people who find me by mistake. As far as I'm concerned, you're
my biggest fans, because I had no expectations about you guys to begin with. According to my sketchy web-hosting
people, someone actually found
www.mattpreskenis.com by searching for "plywood speedboats." Oddly enough, I tried the search myself and had a better chance of finding my
site than a search for "Matt Preskenis." Why fight it?!? You're EXACTLY the fans I never knew I was looking
for, so go ahead, come on in, and eat all my food.
The rest of you probably know me or met me or something. Maybe I forced my little promo cards on you while I was
drunk. Hi, good to see you, too. I mean, good to see you again... Whatever.
I know, the big question: "what's on your mind, my erratic, hyperactive friend?"
For now, I'll give you the short answer. I'm still trying to process last Tuesday's election. Call me naive,
but I had under-estimated the Fear Factor in Middle America.
The long answer? Oh, it's coming soon. Don't you worry about that.
In the meantime, keep on keepin' on. And to all my super-fans in the Red States, maybe I'm wrong. Your Wal-Marts,
Costcos, and 7-11's may really be just as big a terrorist target as New York City, Washington DC or anything else that actually
matters. And maybe your Vote of Fear was justified...
At the end of the day, maybe we do need a scary level of governmental protection from a crazy egomaniacal religious nut
who has shown that he believes in freedom, democracy and republicanism right up until the point that someone disagrees....
But I'd like to believe that we don't.
And, yes, I know that was part of the long answer. Only the real long answer is longer...
That's enough out of me for now.
10/29/2004
Holy crap.
The Red Sox actually did it. After all but destroying my child-like love of baseball one fateful night in
1986 (October 25, to be exact), they had the audacity to play with my emotions again in the World Series--and win.
Like I said. Holy crap.
Now, I'd like to say a quick "thank you" to everyone who both wished me luck before/during the Series and congratulated
me on the win, or, more specifically, "my team's win."
Still, while I love the attention, it's about time I came clean.
It is with a heavy heart that I must finally admit to you all that I was not an official member of this year's Red
Sox team, never mind on the traveling squad for the Red Sox's World Series roster.
No, in a sad repeat of Little League, Junior High and a desperate summer of baseball camp, I was yet again left
out of the action entirely. Instead, I quietly rode the bench, keeping score from home. Although, I
will say that 7-2 double play from Manny Ramirez to Jason Varitek kept me on my toes.
Something tells me I won't be getting a World Series ring for my efforts.
In fact, I'm not sure what I'm supposed to be getting or feeling--or anything--right now. Three simple days ago,
I could wear my Boston Red Sox hat out on the town in New York, and I was part of a small but loyal band of jerks who liked
to throw sand in the face of Yankees fans and then run away before they regained their sight. Now, I'm just another
regular jerk, gloating over a World Series win.
No matter how quirky their fans, the Sox are no longer a band of plucky underdogs. And I think the magic's gone
now...
Last week, only fools would willingly root for them, especially after all the psychological beat-downs they
gave us, season after season. If I had a nickel for how many New Yorkers laughed out loud and gave me a condescending
pat on the head when I told them I was a Red Sox fan, I wouldn't be worried about not having a job. Now, it's only a
matter of time before some hot R&B singer is wearing a pink BoSox hat in her next video with Eve.
Dammit. What am I supposed to hate, dread and obsess about?
My ever-patient girlfriend Niki told me, "how about being happy for once?"
Clearly, that's the quitter's way out.
Turning to another Chowderhead, I spent some time on the phone with my buddy Matt Landry. He was some help, noting
"if it's any consolation, the Celtics really, really suck." That perked up my spirits briefly.
Still, it didn't fill the gap. I'm not sure what will.
Who knows, maybe the universe truly has changed and it's time for all us Massholes to stop being so bitter and full of
passive aggressive self-hatred. Maybe, maybe not... Time will tell, I suppose.
In the meantime, I'll be here, silently dreading the fact that I may be running out of things to silently dread.
10/20/2004
I could enthrall you all with my tales from the past month. You'd be amused to hear about how our sketch comedy
troupe is developing, you may be encouraged to hear that I am keeping my spirits up in unemployment, and you'd certainly chuckle
at my story of getting locked out of the apartment and sleeping in our hallway wearing my boxing headgear as a pillow.
But I'm not going to fill lines and lines of your browser window with those tales.
Instead, as a dramatic middle-finger to all my working friends, I'd simply like to point out that, with a truly momentus
Red Sox game only hours away, I have taken the liberty of declaring today a holiday in our apartment. As a result,
I am sitting around in my velour Fila warm-up suit drinking mimosas.
Now go back to your performance reviews and spreadsheets. I'll be here.
9/21/2004
Fred Rogers (God rest his soul) said it first and said it best: "it's a beautiful day in the neighborhood."
Now I'm not about to change into a V-neck sweater or hold my shoes up so you know I'm not doing any kind of foot-related
magic tricks. And I'm not about to have a heart-to-heart with the mailman about how milk is made. But I do have
to say that this near-perfect weather finds me in a rare, "contentedly optimistic yet hard-at-work on getting my shit together"
mood this fine day.
In fact, it's enough to make me wonder, "what the hell am I doing sitting inside writing notes no one ever reads, to
no one in particular?"
So, quickly coming to my senses, I bid you adieu, leaving this message as a single, but significant, bit of proof that
not all of my entries are rambling, self-hating rants or desperate cries for attention.
Just most of them.
Keep on Rokken with Dokken!
[As an aside, for those of you surprised and/or bothered by the brutality of my boxing story in my note from the
19th, I honestly have to wonder what you expected to happen when I started boxing... Would you have been less surprised
if Rocko and I decided to call off the fight and instead shared touching, personal coming-of-age stories in the corner of
the gym?]
9/19/2004
Hello, friend!
If you're reading this today, I also hope you are hearing the delightful sounds of alcoholic country-singing madman Kris
Kristoffersen's "Sunday Morning Coming Down." The song has a special place in my heart, and now it has a special place
on my website, as well. If all these music clips are a nothing more than a pain in the ass for you and your dial-up
modems, though, let me know--I don't want to be THAT guy any more than I need to...
What a few days it's been for ole MJP!
This past Friday, I fought in my first relatively-real boxing match. Sure it was one of those inter-gym bouts where
"nobody loses," but I am pleased to announce that my opponent's inability to breathe without difficulty at the end of the
match and his sudden desire to lie down on the gym floor while I warmed down made me feel good about my performance...
The fight was entertaining. Naturally, it was fully of dizzying highs and terrifying lows, as well as the customary
bleeding from my poor, embattled Lithuanian-sized nose. Still, I controlled most of the fight and was pleased
at how I did, although I will admit that I was a bit surprised when my opponent, a construction worker from
Staten Island named Rocko, hit me with a right hook that made me see stars in the first few seconds of the
match. That said, he'd have to go a long way to hit as hard as Eddie, the crazy motherfucker I sparred with this past
Wednesday who gave me a black eye through my headgear. So I shook it off, and Rocko deflated like a cheap balloon
in the second and third rounds...
I'll spare you any more macho bullshit--the point is, I'm pretty pleased with my performance, and I can walk around Gleason's
Gym in Brooklyn with my head held high.
So where to now, Matty P?
Great question--thanks for asking.
Now that I've had my little summer vacation at Gleason's, methinks it's time to parallel process a bit and find myself
a job. After all, while unemployment is a hoot if you do it right, not having money blows...
What does that mean for you? Hopefully, it means a swift end to all the boxing stories I've been subjecting you
to! Lord knows those are getting old already.
In fact, I'm working on becoming the multi-dimensional Renaissance Man you know and love yet again. For example,
my buddy Sean Crespo and I are working on a weekly variety and sketch comedy show that we're going to produce in New
York--that should be a hoot, huh?
Who knows what else my brain will come up with?!?
In short, I think it will all boil down to more of what you want, less of what you don't: 100% pure adrenaline,
Rokken with Dokken, and, of course, things, stuff, and assorted miscellaneous.
So keep coming back--and if you're just lurking here reading these updates without dropping me a line, try to be a little
less creepy and shoot me an e-mail every now and then. It'd be good to hear from you, quite possibly.
Peace out.
9/15/2004
As happens on occasion, it's been a while since my last update. I not only stopped apologizing for my erratic updates,
but I also stopped pointing out that I stopped apologizing for my erratic updates a long time ago...
What's new with MJP? A great question, friend. It's been a sufficiently amusing past few weeks to merit a
blog entry while I'm Rokken with Dokken on Internet radio, I'll say that much!
Let's start with Labor Day, when Niki and I trekked down to Nashville, Tenn., to attend our friends' wedding. Boy,
was that a hoot--lots of drinking, bar-b-q, country music, and, oh yeah, devotional vows of eternal love, as well. I
know you people don't want wedding stories--that's why you subscribe to bridal magazines, right? Still, we managed to
have a good time in Country Towne or whatever Nashvillians call themselves.
As a public service announcement, for those of you who have yet to go, let me add that Tootsie's downtown is the best
bar in the world. If it was good enough for almost a hundred years of hard-living, hard-drinking country stars, it can
handle your pansy-ass drink order, that's for sure.
After gorging myself on ribs, brisket and Fosters (for reasons that are still beyond me) in Nashville, I returned and,
with a few days of pain, got back into the groove for my upcoming fight this Friday. That should be a hoot, as well--check
out the schedule page for details!
I won't bore you yet with boxing stories--although today's sparring session with a hard-hitting pro was my most character-building
and eye-blackening experience yet (on the plus side, he snapped my nose back into place). Whoops, I just did.
Anyway, rest assured you'll get all the gory details some time after Friday.
Note that I didn't say when.
Until then, be good to yourself, because Lord knows the guy next to you wants to screw you over then talk shit about
you after you leave.
8/24/2004
Crap--after a solid three entries, I'm feeling a tremendous pressure to amuse and entertain with this blog entry.
As more and more people read these rambling, psychotic notes on my world, I feel like every day is "game day." It's
as if I can't let you people down...
Well, as my good friends know so well, letting people down is one of my talents. So, New Fans, welcome to the Inner
Circle!
The last ten days or so have been mildly amusing. I wouldn't call them a thrill-a-minute funride that is guaranteed
to leave you asking for more. But nine days out of ten, it was worth getting out of bed. Here are the highlights!
On Saturday the 14th, I managed to follow up my mid-afternoon visit to that mixed-metaphor street fair (see below) with
a visit to the annual Lebowski Fest, at Cozy Bowl Lanes in Queens.
A lot of people don't know it, but the cinematic masterpiece The Big Lebowski is based on the life of a real
man, an in-the-flesh Dude named Jeff "The Dude" Dowd. He is exactly what you want the real-life Dude to be like--a cranky
old hippie who figures, "hey, a bunch of twentysomethings want to fly me to New York and pay my bar tab? Sign me up!"
I could regale you with a night's full of stories--free bowling, trivia contests and $1 beers in bottles shaped
like bowling pins would have you utterly spellbound from the first word. But all I really need to tell you is that "The
Dude" not only had to bum a cigarette off my friend after wandering out of White Castle stoned, but he also pocketed his lighter
and walked off. Awesome.
After that, the "mildly amusing" theme continued for the next week--I had a few beers, wrote some new Tenting Tales and
returned to the stand-up stage after a writing hiatus. I even got a book recommendation from comic force-of-nature Rick
Shapiro--I'll do the universe a favor and pass it along to you: Sonny Liston Was a Friend of Mine by Thom Jones.
There you go, I did something nice for a change.
For one brief moment, I actually thought Rick had forgotten that he was recommending a book to me and was noting
that he and Sonny Liston were pals. For those who know and/or have seen Rick, you know that stranger things have happened...
[Note: please do not confuse the gut-wrenching writer Thom Jones with the testosterone charged Welsh songmaster
Tom Jones. My mom would kill you, as she has never read the former, but thoroughly enjoys the latter.]
When I wasn't threatening to unleash my mom on people, I kept up with boxing and got my nose thoroughly smashed again.
From what I can tell, this is just part of the learning curve. So much for the male modeling career.
The week really peaked on Thursday night when I cleaned out my sock drawer. I really wish that was a euphemism
for something fantastically dirty. Alas, it is not. Those who know me know that I haven't thrown away a pair of
socks since I was 18, which meant there was a fantastic pre-Cambrian layer of grey argyle socks with holes in the toes that
had pretty much solidified at the bottom of the dresser drawer. I tell you this, only so you're able to guess which
day I wished I hadn't even bothered getting out of bed...
Matt, why in God's name were you cleaning out your sock drawer? That, my friend, is a long story, for a very different
day.
Also, for the amateur sociologists in the crowd, you'll be amused to know that someone ripped into our trash and stole
the socks right out of it.
This past weekend, Niki returned to Brooklyn after her cross-county road trip to fetch her Kia. (If anyone
out there would like to do us a favor and pay a bit too much for an under-used Kia Sportage, please let me know.) Anywhoo, she,
her mom, her mom's friend, and I had a few laughs, a few beers, and tortured our cat. We also got good and drunk
on the Staten Island Ferry, where the ride is free and 16 ounce cans of beer are only $2.60. Do we know
how to entertain or what?
This week, I've set my sights pretty low, but if something amusing comes up, I'll be sure to put it here. For
example, just now, a fly flew right into my mouth while I was taking a bite. And it's like you were right here
to see it!
Adios!
8/14/2004
Ahhhhhhh.... Now I get it!
As those who have taken the SuperFriend trip to visit my apartment know all too well, I live in one of the more "vibrant"
parts of Brooklyn, delightfully nooked in between table after table of Dominican domino players, Hasidic hat stores and enough
hipster artists to shoot a bitchin' jeans ad. This afternoon, the hipster artists threw a block party. The theme:
"La Anti-Bush-ista NEO CONey Island Block Party."
Sure.
I'm all for mixed metaphors, so of course I went. I mean, the last block party I went to in Brooklyn featured
cheap beer and a bunch of supermellow Rastafarians in hemp suits, so I had high hopes.
As the name of this party would imply, though, there was a political theme. Now, I'm not 100% psyched about everything
that's going on in America, either, so I said to myself, "maybe I'll learn a little something." Boy, was I right.
Watching the man on stilts doff his top hat as he ate fire, that started the wheels turning. Then, as I watched
a couple of blonde women with dreadlocks throw sandbags through holes in a piece of plywood painted with an upside down map
of America, I could see where they were going with it. But it wasn't until the chubby white guy in a home-made Spiderman
suit drove down the center of the street on a custom high-riding bicycle that I finally understood the negative impact that
American isolationist policies were having on our image in the world while creating an atmosphere of oppression, fear and
backdoor corporate glad-handing at home.
Whew! If Spidey hadn't shown up, I'd have had to depend on that pack of identical couples in faux delivery-man
shirts to spread the message, and they were taking forever to roll their imported cigarettes!
Jesus, people. I'm all for protests and getting the message out, but can we do anything without being
all pretentious and self-referential? I mean, I looked around this event at the angst-ridden twentysomethings manning
the booths, and all I could think was, "man, facing another four years with GW as President has got to be almost as bad as
that time daddy made them get a fucking job during art school..."
Here's an idea--if you want to have a block party, I'll help you get a couple of kegs of beer, some sausages, maybe
one of those moonwalks that always give me a bloody nose. If you want to have an art show, fine and dandy--I mean, you've
got some mad skills with paper mache, so run with that! But if you want to have a protest, don't be afraid to have some
fuddy-duddy shit in there like a position, information, or enthusiasm.
I don't want to have to stare at the old man with the handlebar moustache and trained ferret and figure out what he has
to do with the NAFTA banner above his head. Hell, maybe the ferret's Canadian and the little fella's all for it.
I don't know!
If anything, the whole "protest block party" thing made me think, "maybe things aren't so bad after all." I mean,
I went into it hoping they'd get me all fired up, but I walked away thinking, "if these kids' parents are doing so well that
their sons and daughters can while away their days making a giant pinwheel with Rumsfeld and Cheney on it--and the police
are willing to block of the streets for them--then America ain't such a bad place to be."
In some countries, protesters are risking a whole lot more than the confused stares of my Puerto Rican neighbors and
their friends talking about them behind their back because they shopped at Home Depot to get the plywood.
My apologies, by the way--I never intended to get all U-S-A on everybody. Maybe I should get to know these people
a little better--and learn how to ride a unicycle so I can get out there for the next block party. Now where the hell
am I going to find an AquaMan costume this time of year?
8/11/2004
I am stunned at how busy unemployment keeps a man...
The process of finding a job, alone, is like having two jobs--only without the whole "getting two paychecks" part.
What's also incredible is the emotional rollercoaster you ride when you're unemployed. None of my unemployed friends
or former colleagues ever took a moment to mention the dizzying highs and terrifying lows that come with staring at an empty
e-mail Inbox for six hours a day then watching with an air of superiority as hapless commuters trudge aimlessly
through their day while suddenly getting an inside tip that a company is hiring--in Detroit.
For one brief moment as I wrote that I thought to myself, "you know, I bet it would be a hoot to keep an annotated
chart of my mood each hour!" Then, I wisely realized that it would resemble the sad "skyline" of one of those Midwestern
cities--lots of flat land, the ocasional office park and a handful of out-of-place skyscrapers built during some two-year
boomtime when everyone from the mayor to the local minor league baseball players were thinking, "man, alive, in five years,
Indianapolis is going to be where it's AT!"
For the record, I've had some good times in Indianapolis.
Note that I didn't say "great times"...
Anywhoo, what else is new with me? Not a whole lot. Sadly, I will be missing my friend Dylan's bachelor party
this weekend in Montreal, due to my current fiscal situation being so bad and all... That's a really awkward way to
say, "I don't have the money for a weekend of steak, strippers and speedboats." Man, that's going to be a good time.
Instead, I'll be chilling out, keeping it real, and other assorted laid-back cliches all weekend, likely culminating
in a trip to a bowl-a-rama in Queens in hopes of seeing the real-life Dude who inspired "the Dude" in the Big Lebowski.
Yet again, I hope to make lemonade out of lemons.
You keep on keepin' on, yourself, you hear?
8/10/2004
I now understand why hip-hop stars go crazy when they get some money rolling in.
"Chasing the dream" does NOT pay your tab at fancy clubs in New York, nor does it cover the cost of an all-I-can-eat
(and that's a lot) sushi fest, followed the next week by a tour of New York's steakhouses. It certainly does not buy
you a bulletproof Mercedes G600 with 20 inch rims and those hubcaps that keep spinning when you stop.
But while I sit here, unemployed, all this shit is RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME. To go spend five minutes yukkin' it up
at a club in Greenwich Village, I pass more tasty restaurants that taunt me as I await my unemployment check. Just getting
to the subway, I pass a local Pizza Maven's custom Benz. Then you come home and turn on the TV and see rich people living
it up on some vacation show in a town where the third faucet in the kitchen dispenses ice cold champagne.
I used to be all high-and-mighty about this sort of shit. "Money can't buy class," my grandmother always used to
say. And she was right. Well, I am learning first-hand that the converse is also true, and no amount
of class will convince my landlord to float us for a month--even if I do put on an ascot and a monocle before I beg.
In the back of my head, I can already hear the voice. "Man, if I can turn shit around and make some good money
some day, I am going to live it UP!"
I can't sit in the VIP of some club drinking Cristal with guilt hanging over my head, though. So I'm officially,
here and now, taking back any criticisms I may have had of nouveaux riches everywhere. It takes a big man to
admit when he's wrong, but I'm going to do it.
In fact, I'll do more than admit I'm wrong. I'll shamelessly flip-flop on the issue:
To all you up and coming R&B stars, I say, "don't let me stop you from getting an ice blue Lamborghini with your
initials on the side..."
To all you rich white trash property speculators who suddenly "did good" after a tragic flood made your trailer park
lakefront property, I say, "go ahead, drink your wine out of the water glass and order an extra lobster--to go!..."
To that guy who won the lottery and doesn't give jack shit about charities, foundations or institutes, I say, "listen,
man--if you want to get a diamond-studded, four-finger ring that says, 'BRONX," it's cool with me..."
Let he who is off unemployment buy the first Hummer.
God bless America
7/28/2004
"Matt, where the hell have you been these past four weeks? Your stale old website was rapidly becoming an electronic
embarassment to the Internet community!"
Friends, visitors, confused web-surfers who ended up on this page accidentally, let me apologize to you all for the radio
silence lately. I wish I could say, "that's just not like me," but I'd be lying.
Always one to be quick with
an excuse, I offer the following reasons it took me 28 days to pen another hastily scribbled blog entry:
- Niki and I took a bit of an extended vacation in my old adopted home, the Kingdom of the Netherlands, finishing with our
friends' truly spectacular wedding that included a castle, a fleet of sailing ships and so many tiny Dutch beers I lost
count...
- Earlier in the month, Niki and I road-tripped up to Boston for my brother's surprise 40th birthday party. Those
of you who know Mark will be impressed to hear that it only took 19 phone calls to wake him in time for the festivities.
- Outside of those two jet-setting events, my life has become a panic-inducing routine that involves looking
for jobs that aren't there, slow times on the comedy calendar, and the realization that if I don't move more quickly in the
boxing ring, my nose will rapidly resemble a pile of goo
Those are the highlights, really. You'll note nothing in those entries involved me making any more money to pay bills,
buy food, or what have you. Thanks for pointing that out. And for you Holier-Than-Thou types, let me cut you off
by noting that the Amsterdam trip represents the end of ALL of the frequent flier miles I stockpiled while living there.
To all of you, please don't continue your insensitivity by asking if I slept well last night.
As a quick aside for the kind souls who may read this and rush to your phones, e-mail programs or secret stashes of
passenger pigeons, let me assure you, I'm hanging in there. I keep my chin up for 21 hours a day (taking care to keep
it down while boxing), as I enjoy the feeling of chasing the dream. After years of bullshit jobs, it was really a question
of "when" not "if," so I'm making the most of it.
On a related note, it's dinner time! Hopefully I've still got a can of tuna hidden around here somewhere...
6/30/2004
"What if everyone did that?"
That one simple question is also a powerful one. A bunch of German philosophers in the 19th Century knew that,
as did my grandmother, Grandma Pishkin. Last night, I learned, first-hand, one of the answers to that question...
In last night's example, I learned what happens when everyone thinks to themselves, "it'll be OK if I don't go to
Matt's show that he's been talking about for a month... After all, what difference will one person make?"
What happens in that case is no one shows up for my fucking show, the booker gets really, really peeved at me, and I
am cut completely from the lineup.
Thanks, friends, for helping me live an example that was previously just a "thought experiement" in one of the many two-hour
philosophy discussions that filled my leisurely afternoons of classes at college.
From this point forward, I have decided not only not to invite friends to my comedy shows, but also to explicitly un-invite
them. First of all, with the under-whelming show of support last night, my schedule is now conspicuously free of dates.
Secondly, I'll be talking about them.
Screw self-deprecating humor. The gloves are off folks.
Well, that's my short burst of self-affirmation and confidence for the day. Now it's off to another one of
those days of thinking, "holy crap, what have I done with my life?!?"
6/22/2004
It was bound to happen, I suppose. Today's muggy rain was just enough to bring that stale urine smell back onto
the Brooklyn streets, perfectly timed for the inevitable moment when the novelty of being unemployed completely wore off.
On the plus side, I cashed my first unemployment check today, but failed to follow up on the old cliche by spending it
on drugs. I'm even under-achieving in unemployment...
Last night, just to be social, I had a margarita or two around the house and found that my tolerance has disappeared
over the past six weeks of non-drinking. This morning I also proved, quite sufficiently, that being hung-over and unemployed
is fucking miserable. I don't recommend it to anyone unless they were wondering, "is there a way I can guarantee that
I spend a day crushed under a vague existential dread?"
To fight "the dreads," as I have affectionately dubbed them, I spent some time regaling all of you with tales from my
tenting days, on the appropriately titled Tenting Tales link. Check 'em out when you have a moment. The sad thing
is that, if anything, I've made both of those guys look better than they really are. And, yes, like a pussy I changed
the names. No sense getting on the bad sides of a welder or a guy with a fucked-up facial scar.
Those are my words of wisdom for today, timeless as ever. Ignore them at your peril!
6/18/2004
Well, excuse me!
In a feeble, but significant, attempt to fight my post-adolescent inability to share my fears and insecurities,
as well as my hopes and dreams, I penned an entry on the 16th that, while referencing the Verizon guys who have failed to
install my phone service, was really meant to point out that the purpose-less life leaves you open to being railroaded like
an accountant sent to prison...
Apparently, this story from my daily life lacked the humor, entertainment value and downright "zing!"
that people have come to expect from this half-assed web journal. Again, excuuuuuuuuse me!
Some suggested that I get a hobby. Others expressed fear that I was becoming some sort of Garrison Keillor of Brooklyn.
Garrison Keillor himself came by and struck me repeatedly with his straw hat and threatened to strangle me with his bow-tie
unless I started living a more interesting life. Of course, he visited me in a dream, but his message was clear as day:
stop sucking.
So, I've gone back to the drawing board, with a promise to you, faithful readers: no more mundanity.
If I do something, it's going to be kick-ass! If I tell a story, it'll include danger, mystery and international
intrigue! And if I confess my fears and insecurities, it'll be the sort of shit that requires a 10 minute-or-less response
time out of a crowd of enthusiastic Samari-Teens in yellow T-shirts before I wind up in Atlantic City pant-less, clutching
a Teletubby doll...
With that, I bid you adieu, as I'm off to visit the one-armed Pakistani man I met the other day in Greenwich Village and
inquire about purchasing that unicorn, or at least renting it. Next time you see me, there's a very good chance I'll
have an eye-patch!
Until then, keep the Faith!
6/16/2004
Before I go off on some half-ass piss-and-moan about the Verizon guy, let me send out a super-huge "thanks a million"
to all the people who came out to see the Alligator Lounge comedy show last night. You were a fun crowd of hipsters,
so I'll definitely be back for more!
Thanks should also go out to Michael the owner, not only for hosting a comedy night in his bar, but also for his never-ending
supply of free pizza...
Also, as a quick "so there" to all my so-called friends, I'd like to note that some random Lithuanian dude found
my site and sent me a "keep your chin up"-esque e-mail after reading of my mis-adventures and sudden departure from my former
employer. "So there," indeed!
OK, enough positivity--on to today's dose of disillusionment and discontent.
I am swiftly learning that one of the disadvantages to being unemployed is that you have absolutely no excuse for not
being able to be somewhere whenever it's convenient for someone else.
That sentence confuses even me, so let me spell it out--when someone says, "be here" or "do this" or "put on this blindfold
and come with me," you've got NOTHING.
Zilch. Zero. "Nada," as my landlord would say.
Basically, if you protest, they instantly fire back, "what the hell else do you have to do today? You're unemployed!!!"
This extends to the telecom industry apparently, as today I spent my illustrious FIFTH day of waiting for the goddamn
phone guy to come and install a phone jack in our apartment.
AT&T already hit me with "three strikes" on this one, by the way--I waited at home with the stereo low (so I could
hear the infernal buzzer) and the fucker never came. Ever. On the day of the third (and last) appointment, I got
groceries delivered, the UPS guy came, and the mailman had to ring up to me for a signature on some vital letter that's still
un-opened on my desk. Point is, these are more than proof that I lead the most exciting life ever--they are proof that
the piece of shit AT&T guy NEVER RANG THE FUCKING BELL.
I called AT&T to complain and they got beligerent with ME, telling me that they can't just keep sending
guys out to the apartment. So I told them to go screw themselves and went with Verizon.
Well, apparently Verizon ultimately contracts out to the same guy in my neighborhood, because I'm 0 for 2 with them,
too.
Today, I spoke with some dude named Greg at Verizon--he was pretty cagey, noting that "I'm not saying that you weren't
there, and I can't promise they actually did try to knock, ring the bell or call..."
In other words, I'd have better luck looking for the phone guys at the bar down the street, as they decided to pass on
my appointment today...
As an aside, Greg was strangely annoyed every time I called him Greg, which I did frequently once I realized it annoyed
him. To a few skeptics out there, I'd like to point out that this was hardly passive aggressive bullshit--I'd have done
it even if I was in a good mood, just to prove Dale Carnegie wrong... Hell, Greg at Verizon should count his lucky stars
I didn't break out a "Gregory" or two at the end--if they don't come a third time, I'll work in some French, as
"Greg-wah" has got ZING!
So, here I sit, defeated after a day chained (figuratively fortunately) to my chair in my apartment, waiting for a technician
who never came while the world outside taunted me with adventure and opportunity...
Momentarily possessed by the fierce "give 'em hell" spirit my mother instilled in all of us the day she returned my Big
Wheel to the store after I ran it into a tree (and got not one but two Big Wheels to shut her up), I fired off a fantastically
caustic letter that began "Dear Verizon Man, Breaker of Dreams..."
Of course, I got distracted somewhere in the middle of my tale of woe and I wandered off aimlessly for a beverage...
When I returned, I'd lost the Moxie and didn't have the heart to finish it. If Verizon Man wants to drink himself into
oblivion, I can't stop him.
After all, while I sat around the apartment all day today and would like to believe that I missed out on a World of Adventure, I'm
well aware that my day would have gone no differently had I not been expecting some telecom handyman in a battered van...
With exciting tales like this, I hardly have to tell you to keep coming back for more, eh?!? Screw it! We
all have our off-days... Do it anyway!
6/6/2004
This cool, drizzly Sunday, I sit here in my little nook reflecting on the warm sunny June morning exactly eight years
ago when I graduated from college, full of hope and wonder, with an un-broken heart and a steamer trunk full of ambitious
dreams for the future...
Scratching my un-shaven face this afternoon and crossing my fingers for the unemployment benefits that hopefully start
this week, it occurs to me that I really should have asked for a money-back guarantee with that diploma.
Old Boy Network, my ass.
I must admit, I find it heartening that so many people have taken the time to vist my website and become at least silently
concerned that I haven't updated this page in a while. Thanks for checking in on me, friends.
I do find it odd that, despite the concern I feel when I do speak with you or see you on the street or you call
me accidentally by hitting the wrong name on your cell phone, none of you were so concerned that it made sense to call,
e-mail or drop by to make sure I'm all right... Well, either way, I'm fine--thanks for asking.
So what have I been up to these past few weeks? A great question. You were always the perceptive
one.
First and foremost, I've been learning first-hand how just plain wrong I was every time I'd start a sentence with "Man,
if I didn't have to go to work, I'd be..."
You can end that sentence with whatever you want: "writing," "doing more standup comedy," "walking the earth and
having adventures like Cain in Kung Fu." Whatever. I was chock full of shit.
It turns out "if I didn't have to go to work" I'd learn that there's a lot of random bullshit in my life that I would
somehow get caught up doing--like sleeping, working out, or catching up on the mid-day cable lineups while checking in regularly
on a whole bunch of random websites that may or may not have been updated since I visited five minutes earlier...
Now, now, I won't get totally down on myself. My life is more than old Mayberry RFD re-reuns. For
example, I've taken up boxing and have gotten good enough to step into the ring with men who are skilled and patient enough
to teach me the lesson "if you drop you hands, you will get hit in the head, again and again." Sure, I coul've gottten
that message from videos, listening to my trainer, or reading Hemingway. But no. Learning by doing, folks--that's
what I'm all about. And don't worry, my nose just snaps right back into place!
Each day, I limp out of the boxing gym to come home to a pile of random errands, calls and e-mails that I used to do
at work... I'd forgotten just how much crap I'd do while I was stewing at my desk in Midtown, looking for other jobs,
as well as how much crap I'd do by "ducking out to run some errands..."
Turns out I actually had errands to do! Take that, Former Boss Man!!!
Anyway, I guess today's rambling, self-serving entry is really to re-assure all of you somewhat-concerned visitors that
I am, indeed, getting back to being MJP. Assuming I'm not driven mad by the looming pressure to produce some Great
Work before dinnertime each day or even a few stripper jokes for my stand-up routine, I'll be here, plugging away...
Unless of course, there's a Munsters marathon on.
5/20/2004
"Matt, since approximately 6:08 last Friday, you haven't responded to a single e-mail, fax, or memeographed note sent
by pneumatic tube to you at work...
"What gives?!?"
Well, concerned friends, all I can say to you today is "settle your bets," as my former employer and I have agreed to
part ways...
"Holy crap, Matt--did you see this coming?"
Let me put it this way, friends who obviously have not been listening to me for the past four months...
Something hit me as I cleaned my personal effects out of my desk drawer early on Friday...
(Oh, yeah, did I mention that my boss, in his own mix of subtlety and courtesy, sent me a fucking meeting invitation
to my 6pm dismissal--at 11 am--and not so cleverly disguised, either...).
As I went through my shit, I realized that all I had in the office in terms of "personal items" was:
- A bottle of Tabasco
- 23 paper pepper packets
- A half-used pack of Kleenex-brand tissues
I searched my little area for any kind of personal investment in the job and my workspace--some important notes, a silly
sports-themed bobblehead doll, a hastily drawn sketch of me giving a thumbs-up on the back of a bagel shop napkin...
Nothing.
As I stared blankly at my desk area, it hit me--"holy shit, I'd have fired me a long time ago..."
"OK, Matt, but we haven't heard from you in nearly a week. We were worried sick!!! Where the hell have you
been?!?"
Funny you ask that--I used to fantasize for approximately 9 hours a day about what I'd be doing if I weren't at a thoroughly
un-motivating, draining job. Fortunately, having learned through the experiences of others, I took some very important
steps to ensure that my inevitable, new-found free time wouldn't be squandered.
You see, most people sit at work, dreaming of what they'd do if they weren't there...
But when they get fired or quit or "go on sabbatical" (as the more polite folk say when people go insane after being
crushed by The Machine), they're so flummoxed, that they just stare into space wondering "what was I going to do again?!?
Oooh, Night Court re-runs are on cable!!!"
A classic mistake. And an avoidable one!
Ever the over-achiever, I kept a running list of "Shit to do with my free time if I get fired" in my little comedy notebook.
I'm not saying I'm gearing up for an Everest expedition any time soon, particularly since that unfortunate Sherpa incident
years ago.
But I am enthused to note that I've been chugging merrily along in my own little world...
Stand-up comedy, writing, boxing--those have given me a delightfully balanced day. Following those up with long walks
in the park, good books... damn, I'm pretty much living the life of a Playboy playmate without 17-year old boys fantasizing
about me before they go to bed...
And for those of you holding the long-shot bets, you'll stare in disbelief at your crumpled betting stubs to learn
that I've cut out drinking for the time being, because we all know how too much restless energy, vague existential panic and
"just one more shot of Jaeger" would end up...
As an aside, let me add a big "screw you", all you assholes who predicted my Hindenberg-like demise in a Jack Daniels-fuelled
flame! Calling my past drinking "aggressive" is really pretty hypocritical when you're the one going shot-for-shot with
me, you know...
I like to think of it as "consistent."
Anywhoo, that's what's new for MJP. I'm sure you'll get to hear plenty of tales in the coming weeks about my adjustment
to life outside of work. New York "Comic Phenomenon" Angry Bob has gotten to hear every story so far because we're apparently
on exactly the same schedule--don't be jealous, faithful readers.
Just keep on coming back!
5/13/2004
As I sit down to pen this entry with my electronic quill this afternoon, I cannot help but wonder, "What will
become of Leash Gal, poster girl of the Iraqi prison scandal?"
Now, now, hold on a minute before you click over to check your online dating Inbox--you know I'm not one to go and get
all political on people. My personal politics are a delightfully inconsistent mix of whatever justifies my mood
that day, so I'm not about to get into heated debate, mud-slinging and general soapbox-shouting...
And I'm not going to give West Virginia native Pfc. Lynndie England a bunch of shit for using that hackneyed Nazi
excuse of "just following orders." I assume someone has already pointed out how "oh-so-1945" that one is...
But I am going to come right out and say that the tale of "Leash Gal" has shaken my world like a gift shop
snow globe.
Folks, I am more than willing to admit that I was gripped by a very, very real terror (mixed with a dash
of fascination) when I first heard her story--that of a woman who could go from dragging a naked Iraqi prisoner
around in a leash to "consensual sex with multiple partners," in the course of the same film shoot.
But that terror taught me a lesson.
I've dated some crazy, crazy girls in my day--sleep with one eye up even when they're not there, crazy. So, in
a strange way, I want to express my thanks to Lynndie England and the rest of those sick Army fucks with their digital
cameras for reminding me that there's always someone crazier out there.
A few years back, I was fucked up for days when an ex-girlfriend broke into my apartment and waited there in
the dark to make sure I didn't come home with someone else one Tuesday night...
In retrospect, I should have been thankful that she didn't put electrodes on me, dip me in icewater and e-mail photos
to all her friends!...
Where the hell am I going with this?...
I have no idea...
I'd like to apologize right now to my readers who come here for pithy quips, mindless mini-jokes and shameless pieces
of standup works-in-progress masquerading as "thoughts for the day." I have no idea why I'm bothering to comment on
some mini-news story that'll be old by the time I post this shit to the web--and do it incoherently with long-winded sentences
full of half-thoughts. I've gotten 6 hours of sleep, total, in the past few nights, so for some reason I'm feeling particularly
contemplative. Trust me, it won't last.
In fact, I'm calling it a day right here.
Sure, I could enthrall you all with tales of late nights in comedy clubs, amusing tales from our new neighborhood,
or hot-of-the-presses reports from my sudden entry into the world of boxing. Hell, hours ago our cat fell three stories
into a churchyard... But you'll have to wait on those page-turners for now.
Instead, I bid you adieu. Now I shall retire to the Hall of Heroes, where, deep in a basement corner, just below
a trapdoor, there are inscribed the names of those who have had their 15 minutes of fame, infamy-style. I'll be
adding Pfc. Lynndie England's name right next to Steve Bartman's, the "Cub fan" who fucked them over so royally
last year in the playoffs.
[That's right Steve-O. All the glowstick-sodomizing of our professional soldiers hasn't overshadowed the stunt
you pulled on the City of Chicago and the Land of Foolish Baseball Dreamers last year...]
Until next time, amigos!
5/7/2004
Well, here I sit, wiped out and somewhat dazed by my whirlwind tour of Houston, where I represented my company at the
annual Offshore Technology Conference ("OTC" to those in-the-know). I'm certain that a lot of people have
been waiting breathlessly for my review of the event, so I'll jump right into it...
First off, if any of you were ever foolish enough to think, "drilling for oil--shit, that must be simple as pie!" then
I hope you were thinking of a super-complicated pie thousands of feet under the polar icecaps, because holy crap there's a
lot of random technology at that conference. It was humbling to have a guy tell you all about the improvements
his company has made to the Linear Motion Shale Shaker and wonder to yourself, "Will he appreciate a Flintstones sex joke
right now?..."
