And I Once Sectioned A Grapefruit.

Saw this in a Sherman Oaks storefront, carved from one solid tree.

The End Of The Road.

Someday in the future, auto-piloted cars will be the norm, and it’s kind of a shame. Your kids will be denied the opportunity to rap themselves around a tree on the way home from a party.

They’ll no longer get to be distracted, sleepy, lost or angry, or change lanes without signaling or text illegally or watch TV on their dashboard or tailgate. Though on the bright side, “Life is a Highway” will no longer get radio play.

Well, for now we are drivers – or at least after this weekend we are – because Carmageddon II is here.

Last year, crews destroyed the north side of Mulholland Bridge, and tonight they begin knocking down the south side. A ten-mile stretch of the 405 Freeway will again be shut down, and it’ll be interesting to see if we Angelenos can stay clear like we did last year and make Carmageddon II another smash success.

Funny sidebar I once mentioned before but bears repeating: in July, nine months after Carmageddon I, Los Angeles experienced a crazy baby boom, the result of married couples figuring as long as they were shut in, they might as well cross their semi-annual sex night off their to-do lists.

I’ll assume you married folks will be upholding this tradition (if there’s one thing in which you excel, it’s routine), but let me make a suggestion in the spirit of this weekend: after you pop the Viagra, head to the garage and do it in your car’s back seat.

A Proclamation.

Whatever you do, don’t be letting a Pit Bull near a child. He may want to snuggle with him and catch an episode of “Phineas and Ferb.”

That’s Ricky, by the way, with my nephew and his inexplicable red hair. I love it–it’s so bouncy, like the after picture in a lice ad.

Back to business. A few days ago, a message was sent out as a random text that then went viral on Facebook and Twitter:

“I’m here by announcing October 31 National kill a pitbull day. After you take the kids trick or treating keep your costume on round up some friends and kill as many pibulls as you can before midnight. Baseball bats, knives, bricks and poisons (a hotdog soaked in radiator fluid works well) are all suitable tools. Their owners like brag about there high threshold for pain. So don’t worry them suffering they can take it. So remember to spread the word! OCTOBER 31, 2012 NATIONAL KILL A PITBULL NIGHT.” 

Eloquent. It’s not clear whether this is a hoax or not (snopes.com can’t confirm), but one thing is for certain: anyone so much as sets foot near my home that night (trick or treaters take heed), my Pit puppy will immediately offer you some kisses. But his owner will kill you. I will kill you. And if you think I’m kidding, ask anybody. Happy Halloween.

Who Would You Rather Buy A Drink?

A) The architect whose design featured an iron support beam in front of a bathroom
B) The construction guys who blindly adhered to the design
C) Everyone who smacked their heads into the beam until it warranted wrapping it with a football goal post pad

In Which I Prolong The Emmys Another 36 Hours.

When I’m not acting, I’m writing about acting. And when I’m not writing about acting, I’m sitting on the floor eating Veggie Booty and watching “Lockup.”

Hey– I’ve got a life.

And recently, I was asked to do a little writing to help NBC promote their Emmy-nominated shows. Here are a few examples:

Someday I’d like to be on stage with a fistful of my own Emmy, but in the meantime, I found out yesterday I earned a different trophy. The campaign I wrote for NBC won a gold from the 42nd Creativity Print & Packaging Awards:

Sure, this is the weird end of the award bell curve, but nonetheless I’m honored.

Weekend Recap.

Taking the term “dinner and a movie” to unprecedented levels: Sundance Cinema in West Hollywood, with the lobster roll I put away while watching Arbitrage… Got to play with an iPhone 5 for the first time, and oh my god when I get one in two weeks I will blog the shit out of incessantly. You’ve been warned… To the gentleman on the elyptical next to me at the gym yesterday who was hacking up a lung the entire time: contact the law offices of Larry H. Parker pronto because it seems you’ve got an open and shut asbestos case… Loved Eric Stonestreet’s Emmy shout-out to all actors who have an audition at 5 p.m. in Santa Monica today. You are the pride of our fraternity.

Got Its Butt Out Here.

Buzzing the Hollywood sign? Endeavor, you are so LA.

Welcome. Damn good to have you.

“Suck This, Terrorists.” –America

Oh, ArcLight. I Wanna Dry-Hump You Right Here.

I really want to do something. But more than that, I want to do nothing.

Meanwhile, even after ArcLight Cinema had the big, hilarious balls to display posters for the worst movies of all time, but they weren’t about to quit there, and decided to change it up just weeks later, featuring the posters for the best sports films of all time.

However, I have one tiny beef, which is that the greatest (and thus most underrated) sports movie of all time – Breaking Away – is not included. This oversight does make this display slightly imperfect, but then, as every woman I’ve ever dated has observed: it's not all about me.

This Week In @mattshevin Tweets.

• I haven’t shaved in about ten days. My beard has reached rabbinical-student proportions.

• I hear in the movie Battleship, Rihanna’s forehead can be used as a floatation device.

• Print audition looking for real married couples. I'm laying 3 to 1 they wind up hiring actors who can actually act like they like each other.

• Leftover Olympic tweet: why do the wrestling referees wear the same suit I wore at my Bar Mitzvah?

• Meathead who went to high school with me:  “Can't sleep. Got rehab for my post-op neck surgery at 9 am.” Me: “Since when did you get a neck? ”

 • American New Year: avoid drunken assholes. Jewish New Year: go to temple. #TossUp

Best Performer.

For anyone who lost his rent money betting on USC or more hilarious worse, the Patriots – over the weekend, have I got a lock for you: Joaquin Phoenix will win the Oscar this year.

You’re welcome, degenerates.

Joaquin plays Freddie Quell in Paul Thomas Anderson’s new film The Master. Freddie is violent and self destructive and suffering from severe PTSD while mixing all sorts of outrageous concoctions of booze to stay perpetually drunk (his secret ingredient: paint thinner.) Let’s just say it’s a movie full of Scientology-type characters, yet he’s the crazy one.

This is a performance of Heath-Ledger-as-the-Joker proportions. Joaquin has already locked up my vote for the SAG awards, and I’ve convinced no fewer than a dozen others to do the same. I’m a fan, okay?

Weekend Recap.

This dude above was hanging posters in an attempt to locate his “STOLEN!!! Volkswagen Bus!” If you happen to come across it, please disregard the contents of the ashtray… Why was this hilarious SNL sketch relegated to the end of the show?... Hey, Chaya in Bev Hills, if you’re going to keep the place so warm that the vanilla and fresh raspberry ice cream on my brownie with orange cardamom begins to run, I’m going to keep leaning back and turning up the AC. And thus ends the latest episode of “White Guy Problems.”

Ricky Vs. The Ambulance Siren.

Life Sentence.

Yesterday, my sister in law, Simine, told me she was at the local aquatic center with my niece and nephew when two women ran into the place and told her some crazy broad had just hit and run Simine’s car in the parking lot. They knew who the woman was.

“Did you have her arrested?” I asked. “No,” replied Simine.

She did call the police though, who showed up and called the hit and run woman at home, and the woman denied it like crazy.

“Now did you have her arrested?” I asked. “No,” replied Simine.

The hit and run woman then told the cop that her mother was driving the car, which was a bald-faced lie, and a super classy move.

“Now did you have her arrested?” I asked. “No,” replied Simine.

The cop advised the woman she’d better come back to the aquatic center or else, to which she asked if she could just settle it over the phone.

“Now did you have her arrested?” I asked. “No,” replied Simine.

The cop threatened he’d come get her, and the woman gave in, finally showing up after a long while. She realized they had her dead to rights and admitted she’d lied about her mom being the driver.

“Now did you have her arrested?” I asked. “No,” replied Simine. “The woman had two shrieking kids in her car, and they carried on for hours.”

And it was then that I realized what Simine already knew: this bitch is already in jail.

Nine Ain’t Enough.

My friend Andrew is a big sports fan. So big, in fact, he and sports should just get a room.

The other night, he went to an open house at the Phoenix Coyote’s hockey arena, in which they let fans roam the place in the hoping to entice them into buying season tickets.

In a corner of the Coyotes’ locker room, Andrew came across the pucks you see above, which were game-winners from the Coyotes’ surprisingly remarkable run in the playoffs last season. 16 wins would have earned them the Stanley Cup; they were stopped at nine. 

Actually, I am all about people who pursue goals and dreams and any and all motivators they use to get there. When I switched living arrangements with my sister-in-law (in a nutty yet convenient maneuver, when she married my brother, movers took my shit from his house, brought it to her apartment, then moved her stuff in with him) a bottle of champagne had been left behind in her old (and now my new) fridge.

I immediately reserved it for some huge acting achievement, with no idea what that might be. My friend Chad later told me, “When the time comes, you’ll know.”

I’ve done a whole bunch I’m proud of in my career, but the champagne is still there, and I see it multiple times each day, waiting for the big triumph. But this year, something’s different. I’ve been having my favorite year of my life, and I’ve got a good feeling that that champagne will be hitting my ceiling before 2012 is over and there’s gonna be one drunk actor with one drunk Pit Bull puppy to blog about. You’ll be the first to know.

Infested.

Last Thursday, mere blocks from my home, a fisherman caught this great white shark, cut the line and the thing swam right underneath a swimmer before disappearing.

If you’re wondering if I’m concerened about going near water now, let’s just say for the past week I’ve been afraid to sit down when I poop.

The Best Discussion About Comedy You’ll Ever Spend 49 Minutes Avoiding Work While Watching.

 
The arc of the comedy universe is long, but it bends toward lameness.

However, last year Ricky Gervais hosted a show on HBO called “Talking Funny,” in which he talked comedy with the three most successful standups today: Louis CK, Chris Rock and Jerry Seinfeld. It was completely fascinating. And thanks to Youtube, it’s online in its complete form. Click above and check it out.

Weekend Recap: An iPhone™ Photo Gallery.

My friend Gary’s three young daughters had him up at 5:30 a.m., and one of them ate his yogurt, so if he wants to order two breakfasts for himself when he gets the hell out of Hell, I am not going to question it. Watching the Jets at Sharkeez.

Cute, but I hope they don’t get shitcanned like the members of Menudo when they reach a certain age. Puppy party for my nephew’s birthday. 

Does a mini-sized Pinkberry count as payment? If so, yes. Donating blood at the Red Cross. 

I swear I don’t live in the ghetto, but this ain’t helping. Chicken coop down the street. 

Ricky, contemplating lunch. Chicken coop down the street.

Sorry, Everyone In The Food 4 Less Parking Lot...

Your dream of seeing someone slip on a banana peel remains unfulfilled.

Biggest Work Ethic In All Of Hollywood.

One thing is for certain: I got bit by the acting bug. Worse, it crawled in my ear and laid dozens of acting eggs.

But I noticed no one’s hustling nearly as much as John Goodman. A couple weeks ago, I saw a movie and he was in three of the previews. Here are his recent stats:

• In 2011, he was in four movies, 10 episodes of “Damages,” 11 episodes of “Treme,” and voiced a video game. 
• This year, he’s in seven movies, five episodes of “Dancing on the Edge” and six episodes of “Community.” He’s also shooting three movies for 2013 right now. 

A friend of mine was in a bar in New Orleans one night and saw John there, raging, holding mugs full of beer in both hands. Awesome. Though I’m afraid to think how hard he parties when he doesn’t have an early call time. Much respect, sir.

The Sixth Great Movie Of The Year.

Back in 1971, Sixto Rodriguez was a young Mexican/American singer/songwriter in Detroit. He was unknown, but showed the makings of a musical genius with a true aloof rock ‘n roll persona. He was Bob Dylan, only coherent. And talented.

Don’t get me wrong. A lot of people remember Bob Dylan headlining the Concert at Bangladesh. Except Bob.

Sixto Rodriguez could have surpassed him, but in the early 70s, radio stations weren’t really feeling the Mexican thing (even though his songs are great American rock), and he disappeared. Word spread that he killed himself on stage, either by gunshot or lighting himself on fire. That was a shame, because over in South Africa in the early 70s, apartheid and censorship were all the rage, and Sixto’s music, which shed light on the plight of inner-city poor, blew up bigger than Dylan and Elvis and the Beatles combined. And for years, South Africans wanted to know what happened to him.

In the late 90s, a couple of musicologist detectives became consumed with finding out, and that’s where I ain’t gonna spoil the incredible new documentary “Searching for Sugar Man.” It won best documentary at Sundance this year, and it’s in theaters now and you really should see it. And then download the soundtrack. And then thank a South African or two.

Kickass Features Of The New Sundance Cinema In West Hollywood: An iPhone™ Photo Gallery.

What are you a big shot? Put your elbows on the table. Side tables, that is, for your food (and yes, your elbows) in between every fourth seat.

How about this for refreshments: lobster rolls, veggie wraps, Peet’s coffee, microbrews and wine by the glass and bottle.

And you can eat that food off the floor of a bathroom so clean and new, it still has protective film on the toilets’ electronic eyes.

Other theaters, afraid you’ll slip into a second movie, hustle your ass out of there. Here, with their dozens of bar stools, they encourage you to stay and hang out for a while.

Not your typical West Hollywood leather: a balcony lounge featuring Sundance catalogue furniture.

Three-Day Weekend Recap.

After the shitbag guy down the street gave me an unprompted lecture on why I should yank hard on the leash of my “vicious” puppy at all times, I realized: somewhere in France there’s a bell tower missing its hunchback… Two kickass meals over the weekend: lobster and rock shrimp agnolotti at Chaya in Beverly Hills, and the chuck wagon omelet at Bread and Porridge in Santa Monica… I will never get tired of Penn State “time to hit the showers” tweets after every loss they rack up this season… Rest in peace, Michael Clarke Duncan. “John Coffey – like the drink, only spelled different.”

For Dinner: Everything That’s Wrong With Everything.

Jesus Is Back!

And he’s running a hair weave salon.