Please Take A Gander.

This upcoming week, I’d like to try something new with the blog (no, not zesty chicken recipes): a theme.

Recently, I had new headshots taken by kickass photographer and world-class cutey Angie Hill. (Vouch above.) Starting Monday, I’ll post a new one each day. Feel free to chime in with thoughts – it helps me to know which ones best represent me, keeping in mind that I'm going to use all of the ones I post – I just need to specify what each one is right for: sitcom, young dad, etc., etc.

Thanks. You’re a peach.
-Matthew

My Ten Favorite Movies of '09.

Lately, as I revise my latest script, I’ve become such a shut-in that Howard Hughes would beg me to get some fresh air.

And if you also suffer from a slight case of agoraphobia, allow me to help you spiff up your weekend. Most of the following titles are already out on DVD – get a few in before the Oscar nominations are announced on Tuesday. In order:

1) Inglourious Basterds. How much has Quentin Tarentino matured as a filmmaker? He didn’t put himself in this one.

2) Up in the Air. This was so close to being my #1 choice. But scalping Krauts trumps laying off workers.

3) The Messenger. A perfect movie about a soldier burdened with the awful task of notifying next of kin. I won’t sully it with a wiseass comment.

4) The Hangover. Best comedy of the year. It’s about time we saw the side of Vegas that makes you want to pack Purel.

5) Adventureland. Best summed up with this scene:
Sue O'Malley: What are you majoring in?
Joel: Russian literature and Slavic languages.
Sue O'Malley: Oh wow, that's pretty interesting. What career track is that?
Joel: Cabby, hot dog vendor, marijuana delivery guy. The world is my oyster.

6) Sunshine Cleaning. Nothing like watching people clean up crime scenes for a living to make you appreciate being unemployed.

7) An Education. The kind of film my guy friends would hate. Then again, should I really respect the opinions of dudes who keep track of wrestling feuds?

8) Funny People. Very real and low-key. And excellent DVD commentary by Judd Apatow, Adam Sandler and Seth Rogen, who just riff about their days as struggling comedians. Lots of dick jokes – but the good kind.

9) The Merry Gentleman. Remember how hilarious Michael Keaton was in Mr. Mom? This is not that. Great slow-burn; Michael’s directorial debut.

10) Extract. Hilarious. And Mila Kunis is the hottest Jewess of all time.

Never:

It’s been a while since I heaped praise on my favorite city – Los Angeles – and I’ve really gotta get back on that. I mean, L.A. has so many great qualities beyond the ability to have beach sex – which by the way is the third best sex after elevator and White House.

Living here has made me realize Hitler could’ve saved a lot of time and effort in his pursuit of the master race had he just killed a few less Jews and let them set up shop instead. You see, Hollywood is full of the prettiest, smartest, funniest or most talented people from every graduating class in every high school in every hometown. It’s one huge pond and all the fish are flashy. When you get here, you’re no longer the most talented – everyone’s talented. You’re no longer the most beautiful – everyone’s beautiful. (Or at least funny). And you’d better work your ass off to stand out. Darwin was right.

Imagine one big group of incredible people pursuing their dreams. And the shallowness and backstabbing – complete fabrications; I’m surrounded by showbiz types who are the most down-to-earth and supportive friends a guy could have.

So go ahead and judge L.A. without ever living here (especially you, guy who designed the above baseball cap), but keep in mind those are fighting words. Also keep in mind I’m not really a fighter, so I’ll try to get back at you with a scathing retort. Check your email periodically for a doozey.

Crush-Dropping.

There was a time, years ago, when I would have married Julia Louis-Dreyfus, but only if she agreed to stay in character as Elaine from “Seinfeld.” Now that I’ve met her, I’d be totally cool with the real her, and I have elaborate fantasies of her husband dying in a boat explosion.

We recorded Julia in her office/dressing room above the set of “The New Adventures of Old Christine.” At one point, concerned about any external noise while she read her lines, she stopped, took a ticking clock off the wall and gave it to her assistant outside, then went right back to work. She’s a pro’s pro.

Julia, I miss our phone calls. But it seems that since you got caller ID, you're never at home. Try me.

Still Groovy, Baby.

Last week, I posted the pic from this entry on my Facebook profile, and got a big response from my friends. Then, on Friday, I got a call for a commercial audition that specifically asked for men in turtlenecks and suits. Talk about summoning the universe. And talk about dressing like a total WASP – my circumcision almost grew back.

My only regret is that I now live 3000 miles away from my mom, and couldn’t have her recreate the bowl hairdo. Let’s keep fingers crossed nonetheless.

And Then, Depression Set In.

How much did the Jets’ loss in the AFC championship hurt? Let’s just say I had Vicodin and eggs for breakfast this morning.

If you don’t dig sports, I can kind of see why you’d have trouble understanding the allegiance fans feel for their teams. But bragging rights – rubbing a nice win in the face of an opposing fan – is just the best.

Last week, as my friends and I ventured into foreign territory and tailgated in San Diego, we took our fair share of razzing from Charger fans. My main problem with it wasn't so much that the taunts were mean; they just weren’t funny. It was like being surrounded by 75,000 Jay Lenos.

As game-time approached, we wove our way through tightly-parked cars toward the stadium, until we bumped into a very large Charger fan who wouldn’t step aside and let us past him. He wasn’t kidding around. Harsh words were exchanged as we backtracked and found another opening.

In the end, we had the ultimate revenge: our team, the heavily underdog Jets, upset his team. I’m sure it tasted really lousy.

I’m sharing this story so that all of you non sports-fans can get a glimpse into why we root hard for our teams. Sure, what transpired with that douchebag was pretty much a dick-measuring contest. And apparently he had a tiny one, and ours extended all the way to Indianapolis, bitch.

Thank you, Jets. Great season.

And, Roll Credits.

After six days of agonizing traffic, horrendous hair, Petey not wanting to pee, and an overabundance of wet spots (not the good kind), this appeared above Hollywood in front of me.

And I thought: Leno got the kibosh at 10 p.m., Jason Reitman got a new trophy and the Jets shocked the world.

That was a damn good week. Who wants a can of beer?

They’re Not Taking Me Alive.

How much do I trust cops when they claim they don’t have ticket quotas each month? About as much as I trust Roman Polanski to chaperone a junior high school dance.

I heard that quotas for the LAPD were raised recently, which might explain why I’ve seen police handing out tickets like frozen turkeys at food banks.

Yesterday, along a one-mile stretch where I live, I saw four different cars pulled over by four different cops. “Protect and serve?” More like “Ruin people’s days.”

I’m on the road constantly, to Hollywood and back, putting over 50 miles a day on my car, speeding as much as possible. But now I’m going to slow it down a bit. I haven’t been caught yet, nor will I ever be caught, and I’m asking my fellow Angelenos to keep their speeds down as well. Let the police find alternate methods of turning a profit. Perhaps a bake sale. 10-4.

Must. Choke. Him.

I’d like to think my angry youth is drifting further into the rearview mirror as time goes by. Yes, I have a lot of bruised fruit in my apartment – let’s just say they fell down the stairs.

But there’s nothing that makes my bile rise more than Dresses-In-Costume-For-Audition-Guy. I think my problem with it began when I auditioned to play a security guard, and some guy showed up in all black with a kids’ toy badge on his chest. And continued with this J.O. yesterday, above, in his lab coat for a commercial featuring a doctor.

I’ll ask of you desperate idiots what I simply ask of my women: be cool. It’s your best chance of avoiding a donkey punch.

This Was Not In The Brochure.

Rain every day from Sunday through this Saturday? If this was a drug deal, I would’ve shot Southern California in the face.

Unmitigated Namedropping.

Before we went to Carl Weathers' house to record his voiceover, we were warned that Carl was sick. I didn’t catch anything, but how cool would it have been to walk around with Apollo Creed’s cold?... No exaggeration – he is the nicest, most outgoing guy. Way friendly with a big laugh… He has incredible decorating sense, with a really gorgeous home… It’s a bit of a shame how few people know that before he was an actor, Carl played linebacker for the Raiders… It was his birthday, and may we all be solid as a rock at age 62… Remember when his arm got shot off in Predator, but his finger kept squeezing the trigger of his M16? That was awesome… How about when he played himself as a total cheapass in “Arrested Development?” That was his idea… In high school, my friend Rob and I would constantly do Apollo’s “Daaammn man!” I did it nonstop all weekend.

Jets vs. Chargers: A Blackberry® Photo Gallery.

This genius thought nothing of ruining the roof of his rental to lead Jets fans in pre-game cheers. After he and his buddies unsuccessfully tried to punch the dents out with their fists, they moved on to plan B: return the car at night.

The only thing worse than this Charger fan's prognostication skills is his ability to spell.

You stay classy, San Diego.

To satisfy his need for attention, this guy pays a fortune to attend every Charger game and walk around the concourse dressed as a blind ref. I can’t figure out whether his father didn’t hug him enough, or way too much.

How far up were our seats? Let’s just say this was the view behind us.

The Punt, Pass and Kick finals were held during halftime. Kinda fitting that the Dallas Cowboys' representative was a girl.

Huge upset = lots of lots of post-game man hugging.

Question:

Is it just me, or is there a real-life Tootsie on a soap opera these days?

Once Again, Taking Requests.

My friend Jenn asked me to blog about Antwon Tanner, the actor who was just sent to prison for three months for selling more than a dozen Social Security numbers for $10,000 to an undercover agent.

Jenn and I have a fervent love for famous folks that go kablooie, so we love us some Antwon Tanner.

The guy is best known for his TV role on “One Tree Hill” as a high school basketball star turned coach. Credit him for at least only committing white-collar shenanigans, what with real coaches getting way gangster lately – slapping players, locking up players, pimping out young coeds to sleep with potential recruits, etc., etc. By the way, good to have you back in LA, Lane.

One of these days, I just might have a cushy role on a TV series, and you better believe I’ll behave, and not fall into debt and bamboozle folks out of their identities. But if I do, I can always rebuild my bank account alongside Antwon, by folding prison laundry for 12 cents an hour.

See you in April.

And If You Happen To Have Lights, A Camera And Film Stock…

Came across this actor search, posted by a "filmmaker.” (Hereafter I use the word with an asterisk of skepticism):

Project Name: Batman
Project Type: Short Film
Description/Note: Lead Male / 19 to 40 / Caucasian You will be playing Batman. Must have own batman costume.


Ridiculous. Though, as it turns out, I know the perfect guy for this.

Good Luck, Sir.

What do you do when you’re getting jerked-around at work and just want out? Have a backup plan. I personally run a small, fake ID company from my car with a laminating machine that I swiped from a Shell station.

I only hope Conan O’Brien finds the same success, after he decided to beat NBC to the punch with a well-crafted resignation letter. It reminded me of my first realization that Conan was a really good guy, after viewing this commencement speech to the graduating class of Stuyvesant High School in New York:

Conan's Graduation-Day Speech

Shocker.

Last night, at the end of a five-hour long acting class, I didn’t get up to leave so much as I got paroled.

And when I’ve been off the grid for a while, there’s no better way to catch up on the world than with the Interweb and the AP wire, which yesterday featured two of the least surprising stories ever:

1) Mark McGwire did steroids. The best adjective I saw that described this jerkoff was “feckless.” (Remember – use a word three times and it’s yours.) And apparently the only person in the world that didn’t know that McGwire was on the juice was his own manager, whose attention to detail is about as atrocious as his mullet.

And just as I picked my jaw off the floor…

2) My favorite skank got a show on Fox News. I’ve never had the pleasure of watching this network, but I may have to tune in for what promises best new slapstick comedy of the year.

I’ve got a meeting with my agent today. Perhaps I’ll find out Reagan had Alzheimer’s when it’s done.

Mansion-dropping.

On the barometer of sexual appetite, I’m not quite a Tiger Woods, but I’m no Jonas brother either, so getting inside the Playboy Mansion (most people, even partygoers, must remain outside) was once in a lifetime… The place makes Paris Hilton’s house look like a Texas Tech storage shed… Hef was in his trademark PJs, always ready for bed… He smells good… Lots of squawking from his pet peacocks outside the window… One of his twin girlfriend’s dogs took a liking to me, then left a present in the library. The butler had to clean it up… Got a tour of the grotto – some pretty mod fixtures, including an old rotary phone… Had my first paparazzi pic taken, exiting the gates. I wonder if it’ll be misreported as David Copperfield leaving the mansion.

Future Revoked.

Don’t want to re-hang the “Mission Accomplished” banner on the aircraft carrier just yet, but it sure is time to take it out of storage.

NBC’s money grab – putting Jay Leno on at 10 p.m. – is about to come to a fitting end. Which means five new shows will go into production, and hundreds of jobs will open up for actors and crew.

The light at the end of the tunnel is no longer blocked by a lantern-jawed freak. Amen.

A Public Apology.

What else did Petey get for Christmas? A urinary tract infection. Thanks, kennel.

I’m no expert, but I sensed something might wrong when he pissed blood all over my couch. While his red on the green couch was downright festive, I figured I oughta race him down to the vet, where he was taken into the back to for a catheter pee sample.

When the vet tech came walking back out, above is what she looked like. It seems Petey was pretty generous with his gift to her.

I told her I was sorry, but had to ask if any of the pee actually made it into the cup – she said yes – and if she had a change of scrubs – she said no. Then I added insult to injury by seeing if she’d let me take a pic. She did. She’s a sport.

A few days of antibiotics later, and Pete is back to normal. Ah, parenthood.

Six Hundy.

I continue my tradition of saluting each milestone with my five favorite entries from the last one hundred:

I Rate The Mulberry Street Pizza Autographs. Encino, CA. If you thought this place could do wonders with dough, cheese and sauce, check out what celebs can do with a Sharpie marker and a filthy wall. Mangiare here.

Desperation. The World’s Worst Perfume. If you feel like smacking some sense into this chick, you know where to find her. Get your disgust on here.

My Favorite Divorce. Now that Tiger Woods has gone kablooie, I may reclassify this as my favorite west-coast kerfuffle. Take me out to the bloodbath here.

What I Won’t Be Doing This Weekend. Finally, the silver lining of agoraphobia. Get a bigger boat and venture here.

Festivus, Part XXI. Thanks to “Lockup” on MSNBC, I’ve since learned that all you need to make prison wine is raisins, Kool-Aid and a toilet. Bottoms up here.

We Now Return You To Our Regularly-Scheduled Namedropping.

It’s been so tremendous hanging out with the famous folks that I have no idea what I’m going to do when I have to return to the peasants. Find a happy place, man.

And I strode into one hell of a showbiz scene when I recorded Hayden Panettiere, mostly due to the circumstances: a cover photo shoot of Hayden for Self magazine. Featuring an army of personal hair and makeup people; endless racks of Daisy Duke shorts; tables filled with expensive jewelry; a classic, orange Jeep inside the studio being given one last coat of wax by a hot, female set designer; and, greatest of all – a fully-loaded omelet station.

In a couple months, I’ll have to ask Hayden what it’s like to pick up a copy of a magazine called Self and actually see yourself on the cover. I assume the logical next step is to go Tom-Cruise-couch on Oprah.

2009 Deaths That Sucked.

Ricardo Montalban. In 1951, Ricardo was trampled by a horse while shooting a film, and concealed a considerable limp for the rest of his career. He was definitely mas macho.

Ron Silver. 82 TV shows and movies are impressive. But a Jew that can order in fluent Chinese is just outstanding.

Natasha Richardson. She did a voiceover a few years ago for a project I had written. Very classy and sweet.

Bea Arthur. What I wouldn’t give to star in one hit sitcom, and Bea had two. I kinda loathe her for that.

Dom Deluise. Best work: getting smacked around by Burt Reynolds during credit-rolling outtakes.

David Carradine. A legacy of kicking kung fu ass erased by a noose and a dress.

Farrah Fawcett. Blogged about her.

Michael Jackson. He was such a cool teenager – they should’ve buried him in the scarecrow costume from The Wiz.

Karl Malden. He was 28 when he was given his first role in a film. He was 88 when he guest-starred on “The West Wing.” Stud.

Walter Cronkite. Trusted, shmusted – he was one of the few white guys that could really pull off a mustache.

John Hughes. Think about filmmakers in the 80s, and he’s the first guy that comes to mind. I’d kill for that legacy. (Not kill John Hughes, necessarily, just kill in general.)

Patrick Swayze. Blogged about him as well.

Larry Gelbart. The guy turned MASH the movie into a hilarious TV show. I’m thinking about doing the same with Precious.

Festivus, Part XL.

The longer I live in L.A. – and love L.A. – the weirder it feels to go back to New York. But it’s weird in a good way, like going to the gym drunk.

I suppose New York ain’t tired of having me either, because The Big Apple Film Festival is the 40th fest to accept my film, The Beneficiary. And what better place to celebrate the big four-oh?

You know, if I’ve learned anything from my Sims family, it’s that you gotta be proud of your roots. And even though L.A. has been very good to me, my ex isn’t half bad either. It taught me about different cultures – like where you could buy illegal fireworks in Chinatown. And with my 9-7 football team playoff-bound, I learned there’s no need to ever try.

You came on, and came through, New York, NY.

I'll Be Damned.

Yes, I reference Petey a lot. But like Brokeback Mountain, I just can’t quit him.

When I was in New York, my friend Delia very sweetly gave me a gift to bring back to Petey: a mini version of him that barks when squeezed.

I’ve captured how Petey feels about stuffed toys – which is why I often remind him why we can’t have anything nice in this house. But lo and behold, after a couple of days, Pete’s mini-me is still in one piece.

All I can say is, kickass job on the gift, D. I’m shocked.

A Resolution.

2009 was a tough year for many. I personally gave my gun to my therapist – you know, in case I get the “gloomies” again.

But all of that’s going to change in 2010, when I fulfill my one and only New Year’s resolution: buy Jerry Seinfeld’s house.

They say you can’t buy happiness, and I say to “they” that you sure can buy a big, charming place with an Olympic-size pool, a guest cottage that keeps annoying relatives a safe distance away, and, best of all, your very own baseball field in the back yard. I just gotta scrape together 25 mil and it’s mine.

Happy New Year. To me.