Attention Tourists:

You will not find celebrities, nor for that matter anything resembling a “hotel” at the Hollywood Celebrity Hotel.

Cooties, however – they’ve got plenty of those.

A Minor Milestone.

Slight ball-droppage on my part this week: I missed celebrating the two-year anniversary of my blog. Forgive me – I’ve been busy finding blue grease paint in crevices on my body that I never knew existed.

Since my writing style has evolved some as I’ve slugged through over 600 entries, you’ll find that as you meander back through them, they get progressively worse. Some of my ’08 posts read like they were run through one of those online Russian-to-English translators.

Enjoy nonetheless. Happy weekend.

I’m Afraid That I Just Blue Myself.

It takes three times as long to remove this stuff as it does to apply, and it gets everywhere – I literally had blue on my eyeballs. You try to contain the outbreak, but the greasepaint just goes ahead and drives the monkey to the airport.

That’s me, on the right. (I think.) Kidding – it is me, and shooting a scene with Jay Leno for the first week he’s back hosting “The Tonight Show” made me feel like I died and went to Hollywood. The sketch will air either March 4th or 5th.

The bit involved Jay knocking on the doors of apartments, and asking the tenants if they were going to watch the Oscars, and if so, if they’d like to dress up as some of the nominees. In our scene, a bunch of college-aged partiers are transformed into Navi from Avatar, and the Blue Man Group, sensing a color-based theme, show up to the bash. It was pretty damn funny. A long day (eight hours in makeup), and worth every minute.

Late at night, when the shoot was over, I was driven back to the studio, where I changed in my dressing room. I realized I was the only one in the place, and walked over to the stage and onto the set. The lights were dim, the audience seats empty, the band’s instruments on their racks. I lifted the drop-cloth off the guest chair next to Jay’s desk, sat in it, and had a moment. In the peacefulness, I thought about the hard work and obstacles that stood between me and sitting in this chair with the lights fully on, a revved-up audience, the band blaring away, cameras lit up and a crew hustling around us. And knew I was up to the task. I got up, took one last look and went back to work.

Jay Booking.

It’s the Facebook status every actor yearns to post: “I got a role in a TV show.” It’s for a sketch for “The Tonight Show with Jay Leno.” Alright ladies – who wants a future child-support check from me?

I’ll be playing a guy from the Blue Man Group, which is interesting, seeing as I was a red bottle of hot sauce last week.

Maybe over the next five weeks, I’ll try to hit characters in all of the hues of the visible spectrum. Like a green Grinch, or an orange Oompa Loompa. Stay tuned.

Mmm... That’s Good Elitism.

For a guy who regularly eats a PB&J standing over the kitchen sink, I sure could get used to fancy meals overlooking a game.

As I gazed over the peasants from the luxury box, I was drunk on power. And booze.

Go money.

Festivus, Part XLII.

Prince Edward Island is a Canadian Province, and I do love me the Canadians. Terrific job with the Olympics, by the way. You may be our bitch in hockey, but nothing tops your 5½-months pregnant curling chick. That is nutty.

Even more preposterous is that my film is still getting into festivals. I used Roman numerals when I began keeping score, because I never imagined it could get past the number I could count on my fingers and toes. Now I’m on track to pass a fellow Roman-numeral train wreck – the Super Bowl – which has 45. Three to tie, four to pass. Game on.

So, how about that Prince Edward Island International Film Festival poster? It made me want to tie a cable-knit sweater around my shoulders, and research what looks like a little piece of northern paradise, which I did (both sweater-up and research), and I found that not a whole heckuva lot has happened in this place since 1867.

In some ways, that’s refreshingly quaint – none of the hassles of modern-day society, and as gorgeous as it always was. On the other hand, P.E. Island may kinda be like Shutter Island, only scarier: no ordering-in Kung Pao chicken, no access to Internet porn. Pass.

It’s an honor. And it never gets old. Thank you.

Question:

Is it okay to take a pic of this jerkoff’s “Hang Up and Drive” bumper sticker with my Blackberry while I’m driving?

Dudes Around L.A. Dressed Like Lady Liberty: A New Level Of Rock Bottom.

Anyone else wanna get their taxes done by the cat that opts for this form of advertising?

Try to hide behind the pole all you want, Ace – that getup makes your butt look big.

I’d like to think catching two of them together is lucky, like getting a double egg yolk.

Suckas.

I’m often asked if I miss the change of seasons, living in L.A., and I’d like to finally put the kibosh on that jazz. The only reason people like spring and fall back east is because they’re both the seasonal versions of getting paroled after either a frozen, flu-filled winter, or a humid, piss-stenched summer. All this mid-February in L.A., temps have been in the mid 70s. Like usual. It’s paradise

Where I grew up, it’s so god-awful that people fantasize about moving to Florida, the asshole of the U.S. (Hey, how fitting is it that Tiger Woods lives there?) No thanks.

Just looking at the above pic, taken in Minnesota last week, makes my testicles suck right into my abdominal cavity. And it’s been cold like that all the way down to the south. So if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go sleep with the windows open tonight. Enjoy.

Tastes Like Professionalism.

I’d like to get serious today – even though I know that’ll really disappoint my key demographic of drunken eleven-year-olds.

My friend Jeff left a nice comment on my blog yesterday, after I recapped the Texas Pete incident: “Sorry dude,” he said. “I'm sure you handled it with grace?”

I think so, Jeff. The second after the ad people let me know I was finished, I changed out of my wardrobe, and quietly grabbed my things and split.

I was bummed. But I have two stages of grief: depression, and revenge. And the revenge came in a positive form yesterday morning. I jumped out of bed and called the commercial’s production company, and told the assistant producer that I found the experience to be extremely unprofessional. And I didn’t appreciate driving all over town on Friday night looking for and spending my money on a pair of boots that the director wanted me to wear for the shoot.

Two minutes after I hung up, her boss called me, and he was very apologetic about what happened, and told me the casting director he often uses loved me, and will bring me in for many auditions in the future. Plus, he insisted I send him the receipt for the boots so that I could be reimbursed. Bing bang boom.

It was an interesting experience the other day. In a room full of amateurs, I was the only pro. I watched a bunch of pussy ad people terrified by their client, a guy whose butt cheeks were clenched so tight that I could’ve shoved a lump of coal between them and watched him crap out a diamond.

Guys like me go to Cannes. Followers like them go nowhere.

Moving on.

Not So Fast.

You want to make those Al Qaeda low-lifes talk? Make them deal with advertising people. They will sing like Pavarotti.

I showed up to the photo shoot, changed into my wardrobe (snazzy, yes?) and was then pulled aside by the folks from the ad agency and told “thanks, but no thanks.” Apparently, their client came into town, and wanted to know why, since they already had an actor portraying Texas Pete Hot Sauce, they would mess with the company’s branding by hiring another actor to play Texas Pete Buffalo Wing Sauce. Get lost, Matt.

The good news: I still get paid for both the ad and commercial. The bad news: I really wanted to shoot them (the ad and commercial, that is. Though right now, I’d really like to shoot the advertising people in the face.)

I began writing this blog to chronicle the highs, lows and absurdities of being an actor in L.A., and nothing is more absurd than being dismissed by bungling ad people that can’t keep their client in line while you’re standing there in a unitard.

Nothing will ever make me give up this business. If I wanted safe, I’d go fold shirts at The Gap. All I can do is what I do: audition, beat out the vast competition, get a callback and beat out the best competition. Light fuse. Get away.

Hell Yes.

Hearing your agent say “you booked the part.” Four words that would make most every actor in this town soil himself.

And there I was, poohing a little, when I found out I got the role in both a print ad and a commercial for Texas Pete Buffalo Wing Sauce. They'll run for the next two years.

The ad shoots today, and the commercial tomorrow. My wardrobe? You’re looking at it. I’ll be dressed as a giant bottle of hot sauce. I kid you not.

I'm big on stat-keeping when it comes to special accomplishments in my life, like film festivals (41), and tacos eaten in one sitting (16), and this is my fifth commercial. Dig it.

I’d like to buy the house a round of buffalo wings. Ya-freakin'-hoo.

Oops.

I post of pic on Facebook of me wearing a turtleneck as a kid, and get an audition calling for a guy in a turtleneck. I post an entry about luge, and a guy is killed. The blog gods must be off their meds.

Sorry to hear about what happened yesterday. On the other hand, more power to the guys who luge, seeing as chicks love dangerous men, right? Right?

Too soon.

All The Single Ladies.

Valentine’s Day is upon us, and for all the women currently in-between relationships, there are two options for entertainment this weekend: 1) See that new flick in which Jessica Biel’s character can’t get laid (best science fiction since Blade Runner), or 2) Bone up on your knowledge of the lesser sex with this, my Valentine’s gift to you: ten things you should know about men:

1. Men treat women the way they want to be treated in return. A quick replay of all the guys you’ve gone out with will confirm this.
2. If we don’t call you, it’s because we’re not interested. There’s never another reason.
3. A Volkswagen Beetle says “I’m crazy! Look at me!” Get the Jetta.
4. All we want is for you to be cool. Here’s an example of NOT cool: I used to work with a non-Jewish chick who seemed to have a crush on me. One day she told me that Jewish guys always really dug her, well, “except for you, Matt.” Any chance of winning me over was finished. Don’t backhandedly nag us – just chill.
5. A woman in a ballcap – hell yes.
6. If we’re fooling around, and it’s going too fast, never use a phrase like “easy there, tiger.” (Or “cowboy.”) You couldn’t look like a bigger prude, or a bigger dork. Simply pull our hand away and tell us “not yet.”
7. Let’s be honest – if all of the people in bad marriages had the guts to end them, the divorce rate would be about 90%. Relax. Date. Have fun. Find a guy you really like who can’t get enough of you. In the meantime, pity the 90%.
8. Scents that drive us crazy: vanilla and pink grapefruit.
9. We love fake breasts, but we won’t necessarily fall in love with the women who get them.
10. How do you win any argument with us? Cry.

You Stay Classy, Indy Filmmakers.

If the following casting call, which appeared on LACasting.com, is any indication of the state of films today, I want to move to another state:

Although no nudity is present in the scene, this scene is a sexual one**

Synopsis: A disturbingly funny comedy about a couple on Valentines Day morning. The boyfriend is very excited about the day and wakes up in a very "excited" mood. The couple begins to make out and the boyfriend goes beneath the blanket to "please" his girlfriend (this will only be filmed from above the blanket).

However, the doorbell rings and when the boyfriend gets up to answer it, we discover his face is filled with blood. It was his girlfriend's time of the month.

Shoft, funnyy and witty scene. Again, no nudity is present however sexual positions are present throughout the scene. **
[ MAN ]
23-26; Excited to celebrate Valentines Day with his girlfriend and decides to wake her up with a "pleasurable" surprise. However, he later on sees himself in the mirror and notices blood on his face - it was her time of the month.

Celebrity Namedropping Tour: The Final Installment.

The Winter Games, which apparently are some sort of multi-sport event, begin Friday, and the most impressive stat of the whole shebang is the number of condoms delivered to athletes in the Olympic village: 60,000. It’s both extraordinary and rather sensible; if bringing home a gold medal is the ultimate honor, bringing home a Czechoslovakian STD has gotta be the ultimate booby prize.

And who better than to wrap up this series of Olympic voiceover posts than a couple of Vancouver natives? As I’ve pointed out, all Canadians are the nicest people (not a theory, but a fact), and this was reinforced by both Shaun Sipos and Jessica Lucas, who both star in the new “Melrose Place.” I met them on the set of their show, and got big hugs the second I introduced myself. They were honored to record their voices, and then insisted I stay and eat dinner with the cast and crew. Mental note: if you really want to win me over, feed me. I’ll clean your septic tank for a ham sandwich.

Back to the Olympic sex for one second. I have a theory on how athletes can maximize their ability to hook up next week. First of all, choose a sport that finishes early on, so that you’ve still got ten days to get busy. I checked the schedule and it appears the Olympic gods are just begging you to get naked: luge is up first. It’s perfection. Really, how hard can it be to become a world-class luge dude? I imagine all you need to qualify is enough dough to purchase a sled. And you get to go down the mountain feet first so as not to mess up your face – only increasing your chances with the babes.

That settles it: I’m officially in training for Russia, 2014. Pardon me while I shave my privates.

Thanks Again.

There may be one or two people out there who question my compassion, and they couldn’t be more wrong. I mean, you light one hobo on fire, and everyone's a critic.

I’ve got an ass-full of manners, and I’ve got a few more of my patented Out-of-Context-Portions-of-Thank-You-Notes-I’ve-Written-to-Casting-Directors to prove it:

• I unfortunately have experience with male in-law kissing. Make that very unfortunately.
• Personally, if I had $5000 to offer a med student, it’d be so that I could get butt implants.
• Thanks for reminding us to just say no to Bolivian marching powder.
• Thanks for helping me finally learn how long a guy will last after I cut his radial artery.
• By the way, when it comes to buying diamond rings found in subway gunk, I’ve never paid retail.
• It was nice to take a night off from women kicking my ass in pool to do a scene about a woman kicking my ass in pool.
• I’m not only the best stickup man in North Philly – I make the best egglant parm in North Hollywood.
• P.S.: Don’t hold it against me that I’m a Jets fan—I’m one of the good ones.

Festivus, Part XLI.

I’ve never been to Des Moines, but since the name is French for “of the Monks,” I’ve always assumed that everywhere you turn in that city there’s a Thelonious Monk rad, jazz-type that looks like he does enough coke to kill a police horse.

Oh, it’s the bowl-haircut-with-a-bald-spot kind of monk? My bad.

Guess I’ll have to pick up my itchy, brown robe from the dry cleaner, because the film I wrote and starred in, The Beneficiary, has been accepted into its 41st fest: Des Moines’ very own Wild Rose Independent Film Festival. Aw yeah.

One more thing about Des Moines. Apparently, the city has also proclaimed itself the “Hartford of the West.” Really? Hartford? The murder capital of the northeast? Aspire to be more, DM. Like, at least Bayonne.

Final New Headshot (#6): My Worst Nightmare – Young Dad.

Okay, having a kid is not the worst thing in the world. The worst thing is having two kids.

Thus ends Headshot Week. Thanks to all of you for your comments and opinions – you rock hard. I'll be back with longer-form entries next week, including a shout-out to "The Hartford of the West" (their term, not mine), and a casting call for the most vile movie ever.

Stay gold, Ponyboy.

New Headshot #5: Wiseass Who Got His Head Banged Against A Gym Locker In Junior High.

I really did get my head banged against a locker in junior high. I wonder where that girl is today.

Actually, I remember my big brother warning me that my smart mouth would get me into trouble, and he was right. Some bully of a douchebag started in, I sassed him back, and got it good after gym class.

I wonder where that animal is now. Somebody check the New York state prison work-release program.

And remind my brother that my smart mouth earns my rent these days.

New Headshot #4: Indigo Girls Groupie.

No children, trees, chickens, ducks, pigs or platypuses were hurt during the making of this headshot.

New Headshot #3: Jason – Smudge-Free Mechanic.

Truth be told, the most I’ve ever actually worked with my hands was when I glued the name patch onto the shirt.

New Headshot #2: Law And Order: C.O.T. (Clip-On Tie.)

My mom can quell her disappointment in me with the thought that I can at least be a fake lawyer on TV.

New Headshot #1: Brawny’s Stand-In.

Just give me three months to grow a mustache to complete the ensemble.

I balked at first when my agent wanted a blue-collar shot of me in a plaid shirt, then later learned that plaid is back. (At least at the Gap.) Let’s hope Winger t-shirts return as well. I got a drawer full of ‘em.

Happy Headshot Week.