Day 8: Final Round.

When we were playing ball in the neighborhood growing up, my mom used this bell from an old ship to summon us to dinner. A fond, childhood memory. And utterly Pavlovian, now that I think about it… After three desserts last night, I’ve decided to become a plus-sized model… The colder the climate, the sadder the people… Across from a historical house in my hometown – where George Washington once slept – there's now a Subway sandwich shop. Any time you're destroying icons from my childhood, I need a warning or a heads up. Anything. Come on.

Flying back to LA today. Big thanks to my mom, who does nothing but go out of her way to make me happy while I'm home. I ate too much, I slept too little, the temp dropped a little too low. I wouldn’t change a thing.

Day 7: Pass The Palmolive.

Even at nine months old, I knew bathing in sinks wasn’t just for hobos.

Day 6: Krypton.

This is the house I grew up in. My mom still lives in it, so I'm able to keep a set of clothes here and just walk onto a plane in LA with virtually no need to pack. It also means that yesterday I technically did my laundry for the first time in a year… Nothing says “New York” better than a New York mug or t-shirt from the Citgo gas station around the corner… A recent dress-code prohibits NYC cabbies from wearing swim trunks. Was this so rampant it needed to be regulated?… I watched the movie Porky's late last night, to see if it held up. With time and perspective, it’s clear it was written by a nine-year-old boy.

Day 5: Culture Calms The Savage Beast.

For some reason, our newspapers didn’t arrive this morning. Anyone know what the weather was yesterday in New York?

Rimshot.

I followed up the fifth-worst blizzard in the history of NYC by seeing the best play of the year in NYC: Time Stands Still.

Laura Linney, Brian d’Arcy James, Eric Begosian and Cristina Ricci were amazing. And if you’ve ever been to the theater with my mom, you'll know she doesn’t settle for anything less than the front row, so we spent the second act inhaling Laura Linney’s second-hand smoke.

Driving in the city, by the way, is the most surreal experience – cabs are abandoned, buried in six-foot snow drifts. Clever opening gambit, winter.

Day 4: The Change Of Seasons Can Suck My Ass.

In the middle of a 16” blizzard, there are two keys to shoveling: 1) Do it numerous times, rather than wait for it to accumulate and get very heavy. 2) Move to where it doesn’t effin’ snow… If my mom keeps feeding me like this, I’m gonna make a killing as the spokesman for every big and tall shop in the world… It occurs to me that blogging from NY is a public invitation to thieves to rob my place in LA… Post holiday-shopping thought: alcoholics are the easiest to buy a gift for.

Day 3: Shevin Worked Alone.

In Dallas, TX, you can go inside the book depository and look through the window from which Lee Harvey Oswald shot John Kennedy. Above, in my mom’s house, you can look through the window I threw a snowball through at my little brother.

Speaking of snow, there’s 16 inches of it coming here today. Guess who’s got two hands and will be shoveling during halftime of the Jets game? Matt Shevin. Thought we met.

Day 2: A Message From Matt, Petey And Disturbingly Serious Santa.

Hi, I’m Judaism’s Matt Shevin.

To my Christian friends: Merry Christmas.

To my Jewish friends: how's the Chinese food?

To my Chinese friends: how are the Jews behaving?

Everyone have a super day. Don’t let me hear you didn’t.

Day 1: Home To Roost.

As much as Petey loves going to the kennel, the bastard could at least look back at me as they take him away… I like that the Iranian dude who drives me to the airport calls me “Mr. Matt”… I wonder if Orville and Wilbur ever imagined I would one day use in-flight Internet to watch an illegal feed of a Maryland hoops game… To the old, angry stewardess on my flight who was chopping ice like it raped her daughter: therapy is an option… I wish Oswald would have assassinated JFK Airport instead.

Eastbound And Out.

My NYC theory: if you can touch it, it's been peed on.

And I’ll be keeping that in mind as I head to New York to visit my mom for the holiday. I’ll be taking the blog with me, so join me by logging on for daily updates from Angry Town.

Alright, I’m off to get felt up by TSA. May God have mercy on my soul.

My 900th Entry.

As is custom, every time I hit a century mark, I pick my top five favorite posts from the last 100. So let’s do this (cue John Parr's “Man In Motion”):

Dust It, And Run It Down To The Boys In The Lab. The statute of limitations has not run out on hauling in this fat-ass. Ride shotgun with me here.

There Will Be Hugs. My Wii commercial has been running like crazy on “Oprah” and “Ellen” and Lifetime. In other words, no man has ever seen it. Flip the script here, boys.

The Breakup. I neglected to mention the time Petey pissed all over the back seat when he was a puppy. Belated apologies to all those who sat back there as you go here.

My Friend Gary’s Wedding: A Blackberry® Photo Gallery. No word that I’ve written has ever gotten more response than “Jewdy.”Take a gander at that mensch here.

Ragin’ Cajun. Time heals all wounds – I no longer want to poison the camera guy’s jumbalaya. Dinner is served here.

Attention Hairy Jews.

Casting call I saw the other day. Talk about A-list – may we all someday be this important:

ADAM SANDLER MOVIE-BODY DOUBLE TO SHAVE CHEST & LEG ON CAMERA-EXTRA

Caucasian male, age 25-45, must have brown hair. 5'10 to 6'0. Must not be overly skinny or overly fat, around 170 lbs with good muscle tone, but not too much muscle. You will be shaving your chest and leg on camera.

Merry Christmas. There Will Be Nudity.

It's safe to say that Christmas at Voyeur featured a lot less pouty mouths than, say, Christmas at an orphanage.

The club features naked women on platforms (and a suspended net) in mundane poses. When I first walked in, they each were in just-out-the-shower mode, wearing nothing but towels on their heads. Holiday-wise, it wasn’t exactly what the dudes who wrote the Bible intended, but a religious experience nonetheless.

To recap, first it was the party overlooking the Clipper game. Then the private-room party in the back of Voyeur. And if I happen to catch the Heat Miser on TV this week, I defy any of you to top my Christmas.

Man Kryptonite.

Ordering a bagel with cinnamon-apple cream cheese is a great way of letting people know you were in a sorority.

Also: the light-blue flocked Christmas tree my friend Jamie and her roommates are displaying in their living room.

I’ll be getting a testosterone transfusion today by watching Jets vs. Steelers at Sharkeez.

Petey 1, God 0.

Looks like Tim Tebow’s higher power won’t be winning this round. The ultrasound didn’t reveal any major problems with Petey. (And now I get to make fun of his shaved belly for a week.)

The vet thinks it’s pancreatitis, which means I’m back to dosing his Häagen-Dazs again.

When I adopted Petey, I understood the deal that every dog owner makes: the fun and the love are only available for a limited time. But it sure is nice to know it's not going away anytime soon.

Help Fix The Old Man’s Innards.

In light of recent circumstances, I thought about posting today's entry over a frequency only dogs can hear.

Above is Petey’s x-ray, taken yesterday after he kept me up all night dealing with a lot of internal pain. The x-rays didn’t reveal the problem, so I could use a little help from you all to pull for him today as he gets an ultrasound.

By the way, is it just me, or does Pete’s liver have an uncanny resemblance to Pete’s profile?

Get better.

I Sit Next To The Six Million Dollar Man And Almost Lose My Shit.

If you see one movie this year, then you should probably get out more.

And when you do, see The Big Bang. It’s produced by my friend Patricia and her husband, and they invited me to the premiere last night. The film stars Antonio Banderas as an LA detective who runs his mouth and routinely gets his ass kicked. The writing is great and it's a real guys' film.

I now realize that with the title of this entry I totally buried the lead. My bad. But yes, I sat next to Lee Majors and my head almost exploded. There’s a theory that you should never meet your childhood heroes, and I now strongly disagree. He's awesome.

Note to self: bone up on the California stalking laws, in case Freeman McNeil stumbles into Voyeur Friday night.

I Frankenstein An Entry.

A few random thoughts I’ve had this week:

My friend Denise’s son was walking to school on Monday, when some landscaper ran his mower over a wasp nest and fired angry, stinging wasps right at her son’s head. All I could think when she told me this was cue "Yakkity Sax"… I read that a new version of “Dallas” is in the works. That’s it – I’m totally writing and starring in the new “Three’s Company,” using the original show’s format for success: eight seasons, one plot… Don't you love it when you hear some schlubby guy talking about who’s hot and who’s not?… I’ve got a Christmas party at Voyeur later this week, which is where Michael Steele and his buddies dropped two grand on sexual favors. I’m guessing this will be one epic event, because the Republicans are some all-pro pervs.

An Early New Year’s Resolution.

Earn enough F-you money to buy both the Hollywood Video sign and the Ronald McDonald statue for the living room. And, accordingly, a twelve-pack of Axe.

Sweet.

I would never wish illness on my sister-in-law, but whatever she contracted did parole me to an evening of conversations with adults and access to a dessert table. I owe you a solid, Flu.

I Dodge A Bullet.

I'm not saying my nephew is advanced, but for a three year old he really loves cigarettes.

On the other hand, he occasionally has his relapses, which make it all the more courageous of me to volunteer to babysit him and his big sister overnight tonight as my brother and his wife jet off to Vegas.

Slight segue to the other day: I took a swig off my nephew’s smoothie and caught a wicked cold from him (of course.) His mom took a sip as well, but must have contracted a time-released version, because it knocked her on her ass yesterday, and now she can’t make it to Vegas, which means I am free to hit a kickass Christmas party tonight.

As a visual aid exemplifying what I avoided tonight, I present the above clip, shot last weekend after my nephew's nanny ignored his plea to watch a video, and instead put him down for his nap.

The clip is only 30 seconds of – I shit you not – what went on for an hour and half. View it before it someday becomes evidence in the nanny’s murder trial.

Once Again, Random Shots I’m Deleting: A Blackberry® Purge.

I drink over two gallons of water a day. I drink so much it’s a wonder BP doesn’t manage to contaminate my stomach with oil. One day while shooting last July, as I was maintaining my usual hydration, I had to delay hitting the bathroom. When I finally was able to leave the set, I timed my piss. It was 53 seconds long.

Yeah, I’ve got my quirks, and the above pic got me to thinking that I’d like to share them:

• The pic was taken on the way to Vegas. It’s a super short flight from LA, but that’s okay, because I can complete a crossword puzzle in under three minutes. And if you happen to sit in the same seat on a plane after me, you’ll know it’s my crossword because I autograph it upon completion.
• I only need five hours of sleep each night. I highly recommend not having a dreadful job to wake up to – you'll never feel run down.
• I’ve recapped my day in a journal every day since I was 15. Give me just a moment and I’ll tell you want I was doing say, June 4, 1992. (My friend Warren Mondschein and I saw My Cousin Vinnie.)
• My favorite food is chicken parm. I realized this the night my friend threw a birthday party for his wife, ordered in big trays of food, and I ate 15 pieces.
• I donate blood every eight weeks. It just seems like the right thing to do. And it’s nice to have a nurse fuss all over me while I’m not fatally ill.
• I have clear memories of being taken out of my crib as a baby.
• Every Sunday I bathe Petey. Every Monday I shave. Tuesday I clean my outside windows. Wednesday I trim my nails. Friday I clean the house and do laundry. I’m a maniac, yes, but a structured one.
• When my brothers and I were kids, we had a blonde Cocker Spaniel that was much older than us named Ollie. When he passed away, my parents got a new blonde Cocker puppy, and we insisted they also name him Ollie. He eventually was replaced with another Ollie. The grand total: 40 years of Ollies.
• On March 4th, it will be 13 years since I last vomited. I can’t confirm if this is monumental or not.
• Even though my college dorm was as pot-plentiful as downtown Da Nang, I’ve never done a drug in my life.

Once Again, Out-Of-Context Thank-You Notes I’ve Recently Written To Casting Directors.

• When it comes to winning negotiations in relationships, I oughta be disbarred.
• I would kill to put “busting up white alliances” under the special skills on my résumé.
• Knowing that even God gets the “I don’t have a cell phone” line from women will save me from years of additional therapy.
• That was the dysfunctional-family role I spent an entire childhood preparing for.
• Trust me – contacting the birth parents of a woman you fish out of the river is not nearly as good as it sounds.

A Broken Clock Truly Is Right Twice A Day.

I received a wrong-number text Saturday night that read, “Hey Carlos, are we picking up Jen before or after church.” So I replied, “Before.”

Yesterday, after I zipped past this house in Silverlake, I hit the brakes and backed up, realizing this was Year-Round-Christmas-Decoration House, now in its temporarily in-season glory.

Here’s to all the folks who ring in the holidays on the strength of their bipolar disorder. You are crazy good.

Christmas Shopping At The Grove: A Blackberry® Photo Gallery.

In front of California’s tallest tree (100 ft.): California’s most patronizing Jewish display.

No one will ever see Yogi Bear in 3D less times than I.

I’m gonna expedite my career by setting this bad-boy to “Spielberg.”

My brother’s worst nightmare: my nephew digging the play oven.

I stand corrected.

No personality. That dead-eye stare. Let's face it: ALL of them are just right for me.

You Can’t Spell “Reality Show” Without “Klassy.”

From a casting call sent out this week. You know this show is legitimate and tasteful because they used all caps. And what a huge opportunity for all you ladies dating my dad:

“ARE YOU READY TO DUMP YOUR BOYFRIEND BECAUSE…”

ARE YOU READY TO DUMP YOUR BOYFRIEND BECAUSE.... HE'S CONTROLLING? HE MONITORS YOUR FOOD INTAKE? CALLS YOU NAMES? LOOKS THROUGH YOUR PHONE/COMPUTER? DOESN'T MAKE ENOUGH MONEY? IS LAZY? HE DOESN'T GET ALONG WITH YOUR FAMILY? HE DOESN'T TRUST YOU? HE DOESN'T HELP OUT AROUND THE HOUSE? IF ANY OF THESE APPLY NOW TO BE A PART OF A FUN NEW SHOW ON A MAJOR NETWORK. THIS COULD BE YOUR CHANCE TO FINALLY PUT AN END TO ALL OF HIS ANNOYING HABITS AND MAKE YOUR RELATIONSHIP WORK! THIS IS A FEEL GOOD SHOW WHOS AIM IS TO HELP YOUR RELATIONSHIP

C’Mon, Man!

If I so much as stumble upon one more acting-facility bathroom that looks like an effin' tsunami passed through it, you’re gonna have to send the men in white coats for me.

I thought only acting classroom bathrooms should be condemned, until I splooshed into this quagmire, in the men’s room of a big casting studio. Come to think of it, every time I’m there I’m ankle-deep in something rank.

Have a great weekend. I’ll be busy treating the staph infection I've now contracted.

I Attend The Best Christmas Party Of The Year.

Sterno-heated fancy spread.

Open bar, staffed by total foxes.

DJ Cobra, who tours with Lady Gaga.

Sheet cake.

Oh, and I almost forgot – the view: Spurs vs. Clippers. The party was held at Hyde Lounge in Staples Center.

Sorry folks. Just fast-forward straight to New Year’s – attempts to top last night’s bash are futile. Season over.

Thanksgiving (The Extended Remix.)

I took part in my fair share of nutty family events growing up. Awkward birthdays. Drunken father’s days. Passover seders that turned into knife fights.

So it was with the utmost of high hopes that I once again attended the “Gobbler,” thrown annually by my friend Duncan’s family the day after Thanksgiving. It’s an enormous get-together at their home in Santa Monica, and in keeping with tradition, there were endless cases of wine and Beaujolais, a food truck and dozens of supremely tall dudes. (Duncan played volleyball for Stanford.)

I happily earned my meal that night, holding an impromptu crash-course on blogging for some interested rookies. I taught them the three most important criteria: keep it short, keep it short, go for the poop joke whenever possible.

Thanks for the invite, Duncan. You're the tallest mensch a guy could know.