Special Guest Blogger: Shae Seward, Owner of Cobblermania.

The pen is mightier than the sword. If you shoot that pen out of a gun.

Even more so when you use a keyboard. I checked my email yesterday, and my sphincter tightened instantly when I something in my inbox from Cobblermania.

Where’s Mr. Funnyman now? In bed, with the covers pulled way up over my head. So in the fairness of the Equal Time Rule, here’s what Shae wrote:

Hi Matt,

Just read your blog about my company, Cobblermania, and our first retail stand. Cobblermania cobblers really are "so good you'll (want to) slap somebody!" You blogged that you've never seen the stand open. Since weather has improved, the days are longer, and business has steadily improved, we're open more. Now, the stand is open Wednesday through Sunday. Cobblermania still vends at several morning farmer's markets (Culver City, Torrance,downtown LA City Hall, downtown LA BofA, Hollywood, Mar Vista, Gigi's @ The Americana), which is why we open in the evening. In addition, Cobblermania vends at the new Yamashiro Garden farmer's market every Thursday. You'd love it. It's a sexy farmer's market, with awesome views. It's only three weeks old but already getting more and more popular.

Matt, see you at the markets and/or stand! Hey, take a stand for our little stand.

Sincerely, Shae
Cobblermania Founder


You heard the woman. It seems wherever you look, like Tom Joad, Cobblermania will be there. Enjoy.

I’m Nobody’s Lunch.

As beautiful as this shot is from the top of Topanga, my friend Mike and I got our asses up to it in a hurry thanks to a rattlesnake in our path.

Next time, we bring Samuel L. Jackson along, just in case.

Clothing Required.

I don’t believe in luck, karma, destiny, or fate. I’ve got no use for kismet, predestination, predetermination, planets aligning, cookies crumbling or any inkling of justice. If that stuff existed, my asshole former boss wouldn’t be living in Cabo these days.

A few years back, when I had the unfortunate pleasure of working a day job, that boss treated me every day as if I’d overcooked Ike Turner's steak. I didn’t get a good look, but I’m convinced that the moment he fired me he was fully erect.

The day he shitcanned me, I was wearing a retro-style, black shirt. And from then on, because I don’t believe in luck, or bad luck, I wore that shirt every time I had a big appointment. I wore it when I received writing assignments. I wore it to pre-production meetings. And I wore it recently for an audition for the new David E. Kelley pilot, and was still wearing it 45 minutes after that audition, in the pic above, as I received word from my agent that I got a callback for the pilot.

I suppose some may argue that at this point I’m wearing the shirt for luck, but I prefer to think of it as flaunting it in the face of superstition. All I know is, my optimism wears heavy boots, and is loud.

Crazy Delicious.

When LA Tigers went out of business, it left a hole not only in the tremendous demand for stuffed felines in the greater Inglewood area, it left one in my heart.

But taking over the same space is my retail, rebound relationship: Cobblermania. Cobbler is the world’s most versatile food – available in endless varieties of fruit and meat. Cobbler goes well with red or white ripple. Sure, I’ve driven past the place a dozen times and never seen it open, but that’s okay – cobbler is recession proof. Believe in the Cobblermania motto: “So good, you’ll wanna slap someone.” (The sign really says that.)

By the way, I just obliterated the record for most “cobbler” references crammed into a single paragraph, which is like the blogger’s version of an unassisted triple play.

Sophomore Year.

I have a doctor's appointment for a burning in my eyes after catching three seconds of “Jersey Shore” the other night.

Television has become a dirty place, but fortunately, I am programming's lemon-scented wetnap, and I won’t rest until all reality shows vanish. In the meantime, thank Jesus that NBC decided to renew “Community,” my second-favorite show, for another season.

Click below for a clip of Dan Harmon, the show’s creator, as he plays a slight prank on his cast before letting them know they’re coming back next year. I thought my friend Will’s story about “Will and Grace” was a nice glimpse into how great the business can be for a new actor. Here’s a high for some seasoned vets:

Dan Harmon and the cast of “Community.”

My Website.

Someday, we’ll look at the Internet and long for the old days, when it was a place where you could see a donkey violate an old man.

Until then, it’s a top-notch place for self-promotion, and where I’ve created a simple, one-stop shop for my headshots, reels and pics of me on set. Stop by and enjoy. Like a Rex Ryan forearm, it's pretty damn fat:

mattshevin.com

Special Guest Blogger: Will Radford.

Too busy to write my own entry today – I gotta go retrieve my favorite Highlights magazine that I left in a Carl’s Jr. bathroom. But my friend, actor Will Radford, has graciously agreed to step in with a recollection of one of his favorite days in the business. May we all have experiences like this no matter what we do for a living:

Sometimes, it's the little things...

In late September of 1998, a pilot episode for a new four-camera sitcom aired on NBC. I was fortunate to have been cast in that pilot. Fairly recently out of school, and still new to the idea of acting as a job, and having already done a few things, this was seemingly just the next step along the way. I'd already done a couple network sitcoms (one of which was a pilot for CBS which didn't air) so I was a bit familiar with the format, and definitely grateful to be working.

I don't remember exactly how many days we worked on this pilot---I think it was maybe eight or nine. I do remember that every day, in addition to table reads, rehearsing, rewrites, and photo sessions for the four series regulars (one of whom I'd previously worked with on that CBS pilot) that members of the "guest cast" (of which I was one) were changing every day. As scenes were added or cut, so were the actors appearing in those scenes. I was just in one scene---the very last one---but fortunately it was with two of the leads. Still, none of us knew from day to day which of us would get voted off the island, so we just all showed up each day and did what was asked of us.

But there was definitely something different about this pilot. One thing I noticed was how nice the accommodations were---little dressing rooms instead of trailers. And the craft service seemed especially upscale. But mostly, what I noticed was the incredible camaraderie between the bunch of us---the regulars and even us little guys who were just there for the episode. We all ate together, hung out together, laughed together---after all, it wasn't really a "show" yet, just a pilot, and we all knew it might never air. But there sure seemed to be a lot of "buzz" about it. We had a very well-known director, and for the last four or five nights after rehearsing, taping, rewriting, etc., the head of the network would personally take all of us in the cast out to Mexicali. Yup, even me---and I was just in the last scene, and who even knew for how long. And he even knew my name!

One day I was standing at the craft service table, and the actor who did those "Joe Isuzu" commercials came up to me and asked me how "your show" was going. Wow. At that point I felt like if Joe Isuzu is coming up to me, I must really be a part of this whole thing. Even if it was just a small part.

Since I had a lot of down time on the set, I found things to keep myself busy. I helped one of the regulars run his lines; after all, they were changing for him on a moment by moment basis as the show was being fine tuned. I hung out with the other regulars and guest cast. And I stood behind the director when he conducted the tech rehearsal with the level of precision smoothness and flawless execution that only comes with having done this kind of thing for many, many years.

Finally, it was show night---like opening night of a play---with a packed house and everyone wishing each other well. And believe it or not, I was still in the show! Of course, they shot the show chronologically, so after several hours of stop and go, retakes, etc., I got to do my one little scene at the end with two of the leads. And it all just went great. We all got called out individually for our sitcom rush-out-and-bow curtain call to the receptive audience's thunderous applause. I even had several people from the audience come up to me afterwards to say hello and congratulations.

Afterwards, I got hugs from everybody, and introduced my girlfriend (she sat there all four hours to get to see me do about a minute worth of work) to the four leads and a few of the others. We all wished each other luck. Then the two of us walked one of the other actresses to her car, got in my car, and left.

After dropping my girlfriend off at her place, I headed home. I already missed everyone. It was one of those good gigs you never forget. It was one of those times when you really felt you were part of the team.

Well, not only did the pilot get picked by NBC for it's Thursday night lineup, but it continued to be a blessing to me. Yes, I was there when it aired, in the last scene. A week before it aired, I got a call from someone I knew congratulating me for being in the show. "How did you know I did that show?" I asked. "Because there's a big color picture of you and two of the leads on the cover of the Sunday New York Times Arts & Entertainment section as one of the new hot shows."

I went down to the local newsstand. Damn!! She was right. I bought like eight copies...

That tiny scene I did opened a lot of doors for me---and right near the beginning of me thinking of myself as a possible "working actor." It led to other work, a new agency, stuff like that. I still had a day job at the time, and over my desk, taped to the wall, was the NY Times photo---just in case anyone wondered why I'd have to leave work from time to time in the middle of the day. I guess it was kind of like my "license to leave for auditions."

The show went on to be a well-known series. And for some reason, this pilot episode got a lot of play. Of the things I've done so far, it's had the most reruns. It even had a lot of those great primetime network reruns we all love so much. For several years, NBC would run it in the summertime as like a "where it all started" special. A documentary about the series was eventually made by Lifetime, and (can you believe it) my scene was in that too---and I even got paid for it!!

But the funniest part of the whole thing to me is that, back when I was originally called in to read for it, I think they told me the title of the new show, but for some reason I either didn't hear it or it just didn't register. The CD had cast me in that CBS pilot before, and so I just showed up at the producer session, picked up the sides there, and just went in and did it. Although it wasn't a funny part, I think I got a chuckle or two from the two writer/producers and the CD. Then I was off.

On the drive home I stopped at a payphone to check my voicemail messages. I'd just left the CD's office fifteen minutes before, but now I had a message to call them back, which I did. For some reason that day, I'd really been thinking a lot about the word "grace"---one of my favorite words. When the associate came on the phone she said, "Congratulations, Will!! You booked the pilot---the role of Henry, the bar patron." She said she'd be calling my agent, and to expect a call from wardrobe in a few days.

"That's great!!" I shouted. "Thanks for having me in again!!" then, just as I was about to hang up, I asked her, "By the way---what's the name of the show?"

"It's called Will and Grace," she said.

And who says God doesn't have a sense of humor??

Years ago, a gentleman I know who'd been an agent at ICM was advising me---"Will, it's better to do a small part on a big show, than to do a big part on a small show." I've done both, and stuff in between, and it's all good. But this definitely fits what he was saying. I guess it's all about loving what you do, and hopefully getting to do what you love. It's really all about grace...

Truth In Signage.

I had a little business at the E! network’s headquarters. Three hours later, you could just stick one of those giant salad forks in me – I was done.

My Favorite Frame From A TV Show, Ever.

There were so many great stories in the news last week that I couldn’t determine which was the best. One of my brackets featured two of America’s sweethearts: Bernie Madoff getting his ass kicked in prison (Somebody FedEx a carton of smokes to his attacker), vs. 100 romantic texts from Tiger Woods released right after he announced he was returning to golf. (Somebody FedEx a carton of smokes to his attacker – Elin.) It was a slugfest that could only be compared to Balboa-Creed 2.

But the winner, by technical knockout, proved that TiVo + time = comedy: I finally got to watch Oprah’s day-after Oscars episode, in which she interviewed the winners at the Kodak Theater. It was such a horrendous ass-kissing that after five minutes, I was forced to either delete it, or fling my own feces at the screen.

But before I could reach for my poop – I mean the remote – Oprah brought out Sandra Bullock and cut to a clip of her Oscar win, in which Bullock shares a moment with, then kisses and contracts some serious skank cooties from Jesse James. Cut back to the interview, and Sandra mentions how “normal” she and Jesse are, and how up next for her was going back to Texas, and her life of picking up the kids from school.

While you’re at it, Sandy, pick yourself up some Valtrex, too.

That Does It.

I was watching a spring training game the other day, when a raccoon briefly ran onto the field. Then I took Petey out to pee last night and saw this guy and his cousin running up my neighbor’s steps.

That’s enough to convince me: I’m eating nothing but raccoon for the next week, just to show these critters who’s boss.

Health-Code Violations In The Bathroom Next To My Acting Class: A Blackberry® Photo Gallery.

Warning: enter, and you’ll feel like you just got run over by Halle Berry.

Watered down so much it’s now just a mere suggestion of soap.

Talk about getting caught with your pants down: TP, Russian style.

Looking for the paper towel dispenser? You’re standing on it.

As you wish.

It’s not “burned out” – it’s “green.”

Even the asbestos can’t hold this joint together.

I’m With Coco.

Now that I’ve removed almost all of the blue paint from the Leno Show (handy tip: acetone fumes are a nice, thrifty high), I’m setting my sights on Conan O’Brien, who’s close to signing with FOX for a show beginning this fall. Getting on the show will be a little trickier, since he mainly uses his staff for bits, but I must make it happen, if only to shake the hand of the man who not only gave $12 million of his severance pay to his staff, but is now organizing a comedy and music tour to benefit them as well.

Conan feels bad that his "Tonight Show" people are out of work, so he’s bringing them along on the tour and taking no salary for himself. He’s also started tweeting, and mentions both the live shows – and his restlessness – here, in some of my favorite tweets:

• Today I interviewed a squirrel in my backyard and then threw to commercial. Somebody help me.
• This morning I watched Remington Steele while eating Sugar Smacks out of a salad bowl. I was naked.
• This is only my 5th tweet and I’m already exhausted. My God, how does Ashton do it?
• I just had the fries at the McDonald's in Culver City near the Lady Foot Locker. SO AWESOME. If you can get there, ORDER THOSE FRIES.
• This morning I applied for a job at Home Depot, but they couldn’t find an apron big enough to fit over my head. Tomorrow: Staples.
• Hey gang! Look for me at the Oscars tonight. I'll be in the parking lot, wearing my prom tux and listening on the radio.
• Hey Internet: I'm headed to your town on a half-assed comedy & music tour. Go to TeamCoco.com for tix. I repeat: It's half-assed.
• We are now adding a second show in both NYC & Chicago. For that second show, I'll be doing all Liza Minnelli songs.
• Hey everybody! We just added a second night in Boston. I did this so my parents could come. And one of my brothers.
• Tour preparations have begun. First step: Groupie auditions at Randy's Donuts off the 405 fwy. Knock twice on the white minivan.

C’mere, Ya Little Bastard.

After a super late Friday night, the next morning I was so tired I could barely see. My contacts were covering my eyes like Darrelle Revis.

But off I went to a workshop featuring Mike Page, a casting director for the show “Community.” (One of the three best shows on TV.) After we performed our scenes, Mike had an improv exercise for us. It was voluntary, but I knew it was a great way to score points.

In a “Community” episode that aired last month, a lab rat is loose in the school, and a couple students sing to entice it over to them. Mike wanted us to replicate that scene using “Mary Had a Little Lamb” any way we saw fit. We began, and versions ranged from women Marilyn Monroe-ing it to my friend Tim, a behemoth of a former college football player going timidly high-pitched.

As people took their turns, I went into the workshop’s adjacent kitchen looking for a little prop help, and found something. The tricky part was concealing it behind my back, under my shirt as I made my way up to the front, moved swiftly through the lyrics until I got to the “whose fleece was white as snow” portion, and then I whipped it out: a can of Raid. It got laughs from the men and squeals from the women. Mission accomplished.

Right after, my friend John blurted out, “I didn’t know Carrot Top was gonna be here.” It was a great dig, and John had every right; when Mike was looking for the first volunteer, and the rest of us sat on our hands, John leapfrogged up there like Kurt Thomas in Gymkata. Gutsy stuff, sir.

Rest In Peace, Fellas.

My friend and I debated over the weekend whether it’s better to have had success at a young age and lost it, or to never have had it at all. Going from films like Murphy’s Romance, to desperately needing work, to dying young is a true Hollywood tragedy. Yesterday, Corey Haim’s IMDb page’s popularity was down 6% just a few days after he passed away. In the end, he was relegated to just a goofy punch line. Chalk it up to the ultimate bad hand of being forever linked with another guy named Corey. I may have to place a restraining order on anyone named Matt.

Peter Graves put the fun back in child molestation with his deadpan portrayal of Captain Clarence Oveur in the movie Airplane. But I highly recommend catching a few “Mission Impossible” reruns. The best part is always at the beginning of each episode, in which Graves’ character Jim Phelps assembles the team for that day’s mission. (Hint: if he chooses the cool black dude, the episode is going to rock.) My big brother and I almost walked out of the film version, which featured Jon Voight playing Jim Phelps as a turncoat who eventually eats it. Blasphemy.

Festivus, Part XLV – The Final Chapter.

If you’re looking to become more than just one of a hundred actors who shows up for every audition, I highly recommend writing a film. Festivals do for us aspiring types what a few HGH cycles do for aging baseball sluggers: suddenly you're putting up Bondsian numbers and racking up the hardware.

But my ride has come to an end, with the 45th, and final, fest to accept my movie: the Buffalo Niagara Film Festival.

With number 45, I achieved my goal – at least temporarily – of outgaining my Roman numeral counterpart. So suck it, Super Bowl, and your mere XLIV. How fitting that I scored the go-ahead digit in Buffalo, a city that knows a thing or four about losing Super Bowls?

Okay, I went a bit Ma’Shev with my acceptance speech, so time for a humble backpedal. Thank you Buffalo/Niagara. You’ve been swell.

Only 62 Shopping Days 'Til My Birthday.

Saw this in a store on Melrose last night. If you love me, you know the rest...

Three More For The Weekend.

Seeing that I watch every movie I possibly can, but can barely scrape together a top-ten list each year, I'm way difficult to please. Take, for instance, take this moment from Avatar:

Jake Sully: Who rode this?
Neytiri: My grandfather's grandfather was Toruk Makto, Rider of Last Shadow.
Me: And he was the best sex I’ve ever had.

Somehow, I corraled ten great movies together in ’09, and remarkably, three more recently. So this weekend, get them on DVD, whip up a batch of Chex Mix and enjoy a triple-feature:

Precious. Thanks to its truly obnoxious title – Precious: Based on the Novel by Sapphire – I shunned this thing like the Amish. But I eventually got the DVD, and was blown away. If you can watch this movie and not appreciate your life that much more, defriend me immediately, ya monster.

Crazy Heart. I’ve never been a fan of country music, or as I like to refer to it: Jew-killing music. But I found myself really liking the rockin’, twangy tunes of this movie. Jeff Bridges sings them himself and plays guitar. Beyond that, the script is just truly great. It's this year’s version of The Wrestler, only with a third-less day-glo tights.

The Damned United. One of the best sports movies I’ve ever seen. Michael Sheen has really carved out an amazing career playing real people like Tony Blair and David Frost, and now he tackles the legendary, but very-flawed, soccer coach Brian Clough. By the way, let's face it – the only dude I’m qualified to portray is magician David Copperfield.

My Drama Reel.

Drama is an ancient Greek word meaning “act” or “deed.” I read that in an in-flight magazine once.

Again, click above. Facebook readers (and for the wide-screen version) click here.

My Comedy Reel.

I realized that in all this time I’ve been yapping about showbiz, I never posted my acting reels. Forgive me – I’ve been forgetting to take my gummy vitamins lately.

Click above for the comedy. (Facebook readers (and for a wide-screen version) click here.)

The Academy Awards – Belated Notes.

I had a ballgame Sunday night (the male antithesis of an Oscar party) so I didn’t get to watch the show until yesterday. Some thoughts:

• Sure, it’s nifty that Kathryn Bigelow was the first woman to win best director, but isn’t it all the more impressive that she won after directing a turd like Point Break? I’m laying odds on the Academy finally recognizing Steve Guttenberg next year.

•You know what – forget Guttenberg – a few years back, if you’d offered me a "What's more likely, Sandra Bullock (the Brett Favre of chick flicks) winning an Oscar or joining ‘The Surreal Life’ some day?" wager, I would have gone heavy on “The Surreal Life." I mean, heavy.

•Avatar. A billion-dollar, visually stunning, technological masterpiece. Cut to its director, James Cameron, during a monologue riff about him, and the shot was so under-lit that all we got was a black screen. I loved that moment so much I wanted to have sex with it.

•Fisher Stevens now has an Oscar, AND has seen Michelle Pfeiffer naked. I think I’m gonna rush the court, because there’s a new #1-ranked cool guy.

•Sunday morning, I read an emotional article about five Canadian kids who were suddenly orphaned last month when a drunk driver killed their parents. Their 34-year-old aunt has dropped everything in her fun, single life to move to their tiny town and raise them. That’s a hero. Meanwhile, the circle-jerk that has fellow-actors one-at-a-time gushing over the best-actors’ immortal accomplishments – not.

•In New York, ABC TV, quibbling over money it believes Cablevision should be forking over, pulled the old use-the-subscribers-like-children-in-an-ugly-divorce-proceeding move, going off the air at 12:01 a.m. the day of the Oscars. Luckily, my mom has a son addicted to the Internet, and he hooked her up with a legally-sketchy website that aired the show live until the network and cable douchebags ironed out a deal 20 minutes after the broadcast had begun. Don’t pity my mom too much on this – pity ABC. I think I speak for those of us that grew up under her roof that she is one broad you do not want to cross.

Festivus, Part XLIV.

After attending college nine miles from Washington, DC, the area holds a special place in my heart. Speaking of collegiate memories, has the sound of vomiting ever made anyone nostalgic? Petey booted recently, and I swear to God, I was nostalgic. It was like flipping channels and seeing Patrick Ewing on ESPN Classic, but better. And smellier.

The 44th fest to accept my film, The Beneficiary, is the Washington DC Independent Film Festival. The Washington Post called the DCIFF “the Sundance of the east coast,” which begs the question: is it legal for me to say my film got into Sundance? It’s not lying so much as an incomplete sentence. And I trust all 1108 of my Facebook friends to keep it on the QT.

Thanks, DC Independent Film Fest. One of my top 44 favorite fests of all time.

An Open Letter To An Oscar Winner.

Dear Mo’Nique–

With all due respect, the only thing I hate more than single-named celebrities is excessive celebration. So imagine how I feel about a single-named celebrity who excessively celebrates.

How about you take it down a notch tomorrow, and act like you deserve to be recognized for your work, instead of acting like you recovered an onside kick? Have an appreciation for your film, which was beautiful and tragic and had important, horrifying themes, like incest, rape and abuse.

Simply take a page out of George Clooney’s book. You’ll never top his Oscar speech, but you’ll look damn good trying. I mean, I’m not a pharmacist, but I have a feeling that the morning of the Golden Globes, you knocked the wrong bottle out of your prescription piñata.

You're better than that.

Yours truly,
Matt Shevin (AKA Ma’Shev)

The Man. The Motormouth.

This may come as something of a shock, but I really like blogging. I know. Just keep breathing. You'll come around.

The other night, a friend of mine asked if I ever planned on taking my blog to another level, like publish it in book form. Though it would be cool to have a copy on thousands of toilets across the land, my stuff is already available for free online, so we’ll put that in the maybe pile. Then he made a more interesting suggestion: I develop my own one-man show.

He was thinking I use slides and/or video and keep refreshing the content, based on whatever I have going on at the time. Intriguing.

I have performed something similar once before – an impromptu version for the Hollywood Rotary Club, and those do-gooders really seemed to love it. (Though the true test would be a much tougher crowd, like the maximum-security wing at Chino.)

Better yet, what do you think? Would there be an interest in me spewing my shinola nightly? I’d appreciate any comments – good, bad or indifferent. Thanks.

Anybody Know The Shipping Rate For Crazyville?

Email I received yesterday:

SUBJECT: order

Good Day.Sales
My name is Rev Carl Johnson and i am sending this email in regards to order (festivus pole) and i will like you to send me an reply back with the types and sizes that you have in stock for sale ?what type of Credit Card do you accept for Payment
Hear from you soon...

The Cable Is Out.

Now that my cousin, a commander in the California Highway Patrol, friended me on Facebook, I think I’ll lay off blogging about cops, and their chickenshit tickets, and instead attack the advertising community once more. They deserve it – and they’re way less likely to bring a Glock 9mm to my Passover seder.

I had an audition last week for a commercial for a cable company, playing a fast-talking expert that shows up in peoples’ homes. It was tricky – lots of dialogue, and they wanted some good improv as well.

When I walked into the casting room, seated on a couch was a guy from the commercial’s ad agency whom I’d had a bit of bad blood with in the past. He didn’t quite remember me at first, and started racking his brain, repeating my name. At this point I cut to the chase, and reminded him how we knew each other, and he looked at me and said, “You just ruined it,” before I’d even auditioned.

There’s a zen-like quality actors must possess to succeed in auditions. Everything is stacked against us, including accessing difficult emotions, maneuvering through odd stage direction or having a famous actor or director reading opposite us. And there I was, with a decision-maker telling me I didn’t have a chance before I even got started. Luckily for me, I happened to put on a pair of “Oops I Crapped My Pants” before I left the house.

Actually, what I chose to do was shake it off, dig in and do my thing. I powered through the difficult lines. I ad-libbed. I was asked to try it again with new ad-libbing, which I did. And when I finished, the advertising curmudgeon said, “That was by far the best take I’ve seen today.” How ‘bout that?

But….. I guess our past wasn’t just water under the bridge – he wouldn’t even give me a callback. It happens. All I can do is do my job, which I did, well. Anything else ain’t my baggage, Mr. Crankypants. Next.

Somebody Stop Me.

Anybody else get a big kick out of their car reaching an odometer milestone? I can’t quite explain why it gives me a nipple hardon, and it really shouldn’t, because more mileage just means more maintenance. I’ve been consulting the owner’s manual way too frequently lately, and let me tell you – a book hasn’t given me this much trouble since Where’s Waldo went to that barber pole factory.

But there I was, keeping my eyes off the road as I passed 140K last night. It’s astounding how much this career puts me on the road, like the day I auditioned to play the hot sauce bottle. It was followed by a second audition, a friend’s movie premiere and a casting workshop. Total damage: 127 miles.

That’s nine miles shorter than a trip from my place to Tijuana. Nine miles! So I hope you all understand when I chuck it all one day and begin chasing my new dream: Mexican drug mule.

Festivus, Part XLIII.

It's one of the occupational hazards of blogging that soon after you attack something or someone, it'll respond by killing you with kindness. I called Florida the asshole of the U.S., and now my film has been accepted into one of its top festivals. Oops.

Okay, three things led me to this opinion of FL:

1. The show “Cops,” which has spent 20 years making bank off the ongoing tire fire that is Broward County.
2. Adam Carolla’s radio show trivia game “Germany or Florida,” in which his sidekick reads a crazy story from the newswire, and Adam has to guess whether it came from Germany or Florida. (Guy with no medical training practicing dentistry out of the trunk of his car? Florida.)
3. Spring break of my senior year in Daytona, in which the Ocean Hut Hotel provided my friends and I with a broken air conditioner, a toilet that wouldn’t flush, and no bedding change for over a week. On the last day, my friend Steve took duct tape and altered the place’s signage to the more appropriate “Ocean Slut.”

But now, I backpedal. Florida has its plusses. My friends will testify that we took a killer trip to Ft. Lauderdale a couple years back, which included driving down to South Beach, enjoying great food, better weather and strip clubs the size of Canadian football fields.

And over the weekend, the Fort Lauderdale International Film Festival became the 43rd fest to accept The Beneficiary. Well played, FLIF. Ya bastards.

Speaking of Canada, in another recent post, I said the country was our bitch when it came to hockey. Yeah, about that…